I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.

Wine has a drastic, an astringent taste. I cannot help wincing as I drink. Ascent of flowers, radiance and heat, are distilled here to a fiery, yellow liquid. Just behind my shoulder-blades some dry thing, wide-eyed, gently closes, gradually lulls itself to sleep. This is rapture. This is relief.

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.

Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.

I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.