I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

Everything in life is writable.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.

But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

There was a beautiful time.