O Remember In Your Narrowing Dark Hours

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

...in A Time Lacking In Truth And Certainty And Filled With Anguish And Despair, No Woman Should Be Shamefaced In Attempting To Give Back To The World, Through Her Work, A Portion Of Its Lost Heart.

But It's Silly To Suggest The Writing Of Poetry Is Something Ethereal, A Sort Of Soul-crashing, Devastating Emotional Experience That Wrings You. I Have No Fancy Ideas About Poetry. ... It Doesn't Come To You On The Wings Of A Dove. It's Something You Have To Work Hard At.

... Politics Are Nothing But Sand And Gravel: It Is Art And Life That Feed Us Until We Die. Everything Else Is Ambition, Hysteria Or Hatred.

The Art Of One Period Cannot Be Approached Through The Attitudes (emotional Or Intellectual) Of Another.