He thought that it was loneliness which he was trying to escape and not himself. But the street ran on: catlike, one place was the same as another to him. But in none of them could he be quiet. But the street ran on in its moods and phases, always empty: he might have seen himself as in numberless avatars, in silence, doomed with motion, driven by the courage of flagged and spurred despair; by the despair of courage whose opportunities had to be flagged and spurred.

Hemingway shot himself. I don't like a man that takes the short way home.

I'm bad and I'm going to hell, and I don't care. I'd rather be in hell than anywhere where you are.

An artist is completely amoral in that he will rob, beg, borrow, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.

People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.

The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.