Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.

Everyone needs solitude, especially a person who is used to thinking about what she experiences. Solitude is very important in my work as a mode of inspiration, but isolation is not good in this respect. I am not writing poetry about isolation.

Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.

After every war someone has to tidy up.