I think writing, my writing, is a species of mediumship. I become the person.

He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

Reading [poetry], you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at once - hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head - all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response).

If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?

Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.