For the truth is a terrible thing.

We are the prisoners of history. Or are we?

I think the greatest curse of American society has been the idea of an easy millennialism -- that some new drug, or the next election or the latest in social engineering will solve everything.

If you are an idealist, it does not matter what you do or what goes on around you because it isn't real anyway.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.

Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?