Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.

Women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems.

Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.

I find that when I've seen a certain number of people my mind becomes like an old match box -- the part one strikes on, I mean.

The most extraordinary thing about writing is that when you've struck the right vein, tiredness goes. It must be an effort, thinking wrong.

Still, life had a way of adding day to day