If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the spoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in the darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the center of the silent Word. Oh my people, what have I done unto thee. Where shall the word be found, where shall the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not / You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.

We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open

Survival is your strength not your shame.

The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.

the ordinary man's experience is chaotic, irregular, fragmentary. [He] falls in love or reads Spinoza, and these two experiences have nothing to do with each other, or with the noise of the typewriter, or the smell of cooking; in the mind of the poet these experiences are always forming new wholes

The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.