[A]nd soon now we shall go out of the house and go into the convulsion of the world, out of history into history and the awful responsibility of Time.

You have to make the good out of the bad because that is all you have got to make it out of.

...a man does not die for words. He dies for his relation to them.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

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.

For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.

You don’t choose a story, it chooses you.