I'm drowning in papers.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

I have sympathy for young people, for their growing pains, but I balk when these growing pains are pushed into the foreground, when you make these young people the only vehicles of lifes wisdom.

In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.

Any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.

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

I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.