In The End, There Is No End.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.