I Believe That Only Poetry Counts ...

Men Resemble Great Deserted Palaces: The Owner Occupies Only A Few Rooms And Has Closed-off Wings Where He Never Ventures.

The Grandeur Of Man Lies In Song, Not In Thought.

The Scapegoat Has Always Had The Mysterious Power Of Unleashing Man's Ferocious Pleasure In Torturing, Corrupting, And Befouling.

That Is The Mystery Of Grace: It Never Comes Too Late.

I Write Whenever It Suits Me. During A Creative Period I Write Every Day; A Novel Should Not Be Interrupted. When I Cease To Be Carried Along, When I No Longer Feel As Though I Were Taking Down Dictation, I Stop.