We Can Do Anything, Or Almost, But

I Live Alone, Perhaps For No Good Reason, For The Reason That I Am An Impossible Creature, Set Apart By A Temperament I Have Never Learned To Use As It Could Be Used, Thrown Off By A Word, A Glance, A Rainy Day, Or One Drink Too Many. My Need To Be Alone Is Balanced Against My Fear Of What Will Happen When Suddenly I Enter The Huge Empty Silence If I Cannot Find Support There. I Go Up To Heaven And Down To Hell In An Hour, And Keep Alive Only By Imposing Upon Myself Inexorable Routines. I Write Too Many Letters And Too Few Poems.

A Garden Is Always A Series Of Losses Set Against A Few Triumphs, Like Life Itself.

Words Are More Powerful Than Perhaps Anyone Suspects, And Once Deeply Engraved In A Child's Mind, They Are Not Easily Eradicated.

I Am Not A Greedy Person Except About Flowers And Plants, And Then I Become Fanatically Greedy.

I Have Never Written A Book That Was Not Born Out Of A Question I Needed To Answer For Myself.