All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

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.