What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.

I Am Beginning To Think Of The Human Imagination As A Fruit Machine On Which Victories Are Rare And Separated By Much Vain Expense, And Represent A Rare Alignment Of Mental And Spiritual Qualities That Normally Are Quite At Odds.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

Death Is No Different Whined At Than Withstood.

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

Never Such Innocence, Never Before Or Since, As Changed Itself To Past Without A Word--the Men Leaving The Gardens Tidy, The Thousands Of Marriages Lasting A Little While Longer: Never Such Innocence Again.