The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.