If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.

I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more