I always believed that whatever had to be written would somehow get itself written.

If self is a location, so is love: Bearings taken, markings, cardinal points, Options, obstinacies, dug heels, and distance, Here and there and now and then, a stance.

Suspect too much sweet talk but never close your mind.

The end of art is peace.

Anyone with gumption and a sharp mind will take the measure of two things: what's said and what's done.

The whole relationship between a writer's spiritual/emotional condition and the kind of wordstuff and form-making that's going on in his work is an interesting one. When I was an undergraduate, there was a glib notion around that there was no reason to suppose a bad man could be a good writer.

You had to come back to learn how to lose yourself, to be pilot and stray-witch, Hansel and Gretel in one.