We Have Reason To Be Afraid. This

Offering Dragons Quarter Is No Good, They Regrow All Their Parts And Come On Again. They Have To Be Killed.

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.

One Must Be Ruthless With One's Own Writing Or Someone Else Will Be.

This World Is Gradually Becoming A Place Where I Do Not Care To Be Any More.

We Must Travel In The Direction Of Our Fear.