A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

Get to know other worlds, if only for comparison.

Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.

It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.

Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan