in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members.

I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.

It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Memory overshadows the present and dims the future "into something thicker than its usual pea soup."

Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.

Solitude is the playfield of Satan.