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

They say you are not you except in terms of relation to other people. If there weren't any other people there wouldn't be any you because what you do, which is what you are, only has meaning in relation to other people.

Goodness . . . You got to make it out of badness . . . Because there isn't anything else to make it out of.

The best luck always happens to people who don't need it.

There is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain.

The image that fiction presents is purged of the distractions, confusions and accidents of ordinary life.

History is all explained by geography.