We come into the world alone. We go away the same. We're meant to spend the interlude between in closeness or so we tell ourselves. But it's a long way from the morning to the evening.

A poet can't afford to be aloof. The tools of his trade are the people he bumps up against.

The world needs writers. We will always be necessary. There are few professions that can claim that distinction.

People often say 'I live for my art.' Bullshit! If you are given a talent it's to be used. It's not in the private domain.

I cannot speculate on what our cluttered mind will save- sleepy Sundays, or a nosebleed after love. I know only the dying heart needs the nourishment of memory to live beyond too many winters.

If I could do it over, I'd do better.

Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it.