I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

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

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.