A Lot Happens By Accident In Poetry.

We Think About Sex Obsessively Except During The Act, When Our Minds Tend To Wander.

The Only Way Out Is The Way Through, Just As You Cannot Escape Death Except By Dying. Being Unable To Write, You Must Examine In Writing This Being Unable, Which Becomes For The Present -henceforth?- The Subject To Which You Are Condemned.

I Sometimes Talk About The Making Of A Poem Within The Poem.

Occasionally A Student Writer Comes Up With Something Really Beautiful And Moving, And You Won't Know For Years If It Was An Accident Or The First Burst Of Something Wonderful.

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.