No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.

August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.

The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.

Christmas and Easter can be subjects for poetry, but Good Friday, like Auschwitz, cannot. The reality is so horrible it is not surprising that people should have found it a stumbling block to faith.

All wishes, whatever their apparent content, have the same and unvarying meaning: "I refuse to be what I am."

Art is born of humiliation.

Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another...