We are used to the actions of human beings, not to their stillness.

I am under the spell of language, which has ruled me since I was 10.

On one plane, the very great writers and the popular romancers of the lower order always meet. They use all of themselves, helplessly, unselectively. They are above the primness and good taste of declining to give themselves away.

Sooner or later, the great men turn out to be all alike. They never stop working. They never lose a minute. It is very depressing.

It is the role of the poet to look at what is happening in the world and to know that quite other things are happening.

The wrongs of childhood and upbringing have made a large and obsessional contribution to autobiography and the novel.

How extraordinary it is that one feels most guilt about the sins one is unable to commit.