I have found my voice again and the art of using it.

There are days when solitude, for someone my age, is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.

Hope costs nothing.

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.

I believe there are more urgent and honorable occupations than the incomparable waste of time we call suffering.

There are no ordinary cats.

I went to collect the few personal belongings which...I held to be invaluable: my cat, my resolve to travel, and my solitude.