Bad Poets Imitate, Good Poets Steal.

Anxiety Is The Hand Maiden Of Creativity.

Every Experience Is A Paradox In That It Means To Be Absolute, And Yet Is Relative; In That It Somehow Always Goes Beyond Itself And Yet Never Escapes Itself.

Writing Every Day Is A Way Of Keeping The Engine Running, And Then Something Good May Come Out Of It.

No! I Am Not Prince Hamlet, Nor Was Meant To Be; Am An Attendant Lord, One That Will Do To Swell A Progress, Start A Scene Or Two, Advise The Prince; No Doubt, An Easy Tool, Deferential, Glad To Be Of Use, Politic, Cautious, And Meticulous; Full Of High Sentence, But A Bit Obtuse; At Times, Indeed, Almost Ridiculous— Almost, At Times, The Fool.

For Love Would Be Love Of The Wrong Thing; There Is Yet Faith, But The Faith And The Love And The Hope Are All In The Waiting.