There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.

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

Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

There is more than one good way to drown.