Prose writers are interested mostly in life and commas.

The borderline between prose and poetry is one of those fog-shrouded literary minefields where the wary explorer gets blown to bits before ever seeing anything clearly. It is full of barbed wire and the stumps of dead opinions.

All makers must leave room for acts of the spirit.

This is. And thou art. There is no safety. There is no end. The word must be heard in silence. There must be darkness to see the stars. The dance is always danced above the hollow place, above the terrible abyss.

The explorer who will not come back or send back his ships to tell his tale is not an explorer, only an adventurer; and his sons are born in exile.

Fiction—and poetry and drama— cleanse the doors of perception.

It's a rare gift, to know where you need to be, before you've been to all the places you don't need to be.