The Poet Is A Liar Who Always

Whatever The Public Blames You For, Cultivate It; It Is Yourself.

I Have A Piece Of Great And Sad News To Tell You: I Am Dead.

Commissions Suit Me. They Set Limits. Jean Marais Dared Me To Write Play In Which He Would Not Speak In The First Act, Would Weep For Joy In The Second And In The Last Would Fall Backward Down A Flight Of Stairs.

Here I Am Trying To Live, Or Rather, I Am Trying To Teach The Death Within Me How To Live.

Poetry Is A Religion With No Hope.