The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.

If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.

The fire burns as the novel taught it how.

I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.

Poetry is a means of redemption.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.