I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.

I hate Technicolor. Everybody in a Technicolor movie seems to feel obliged to wear a lurid costume in each new scene and to stand around like a clotheshorse with a lot of very green trees or very yellow wheat or very blue ocean rolling away for miles and miles in every direction.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.