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

The lack of a sense of history is the damnation of the modern world.

That summer we had been absolutely alone, together, even when people were around, the only inhabitants of the kind of floating island or magic carpet which being in love is.

All I've tried to do (with my writing) is capture the essence of my time.

Perhaps he had to be close in order to keep a reason for the things he did. To make the things he did be themselves Life. And not merely a delightful exercise of technical skill which man had been able to achieve because he, of all the animals, had a fine thumb. Which is nonsense, for whatever you live is Life.

I reckon I am a smart aleck, but it is just a way to pass the time.

History is not melodrama, even if it usually reads like that.