I Didn't Want To Be Like Yeats;

The Artist Is Extremely Lucky Who Is Presented With The Worst Possible Ordeal Which Will Not Actually Kill Him. At That Point, He's In Business.

We Are Using Our Own Skins For Wallpaper And We Cannot Win.

I Think That What Happens In My Poetic Work In The Future Will Depend On My Being Knocked In The Face, And Thrown Flat, And Given Cancer, And All Kinds Of Other Things Short Of Senile Dementia.

Wishin' Was Dyin' But I Gotta Make It All This Way To That Bed On These Feet.

We Must Travel In The Direction Of Our Fear.