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

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

Is anyone anywhere happy?

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.

I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can't understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I'm fascinated by this mastery of the practical.