You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.