The lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master.
Wealth should not be seized, but the god-given is much better.
I remember way back when I was young, 10 years ago.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.
Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another’s great tribulation; not because any man’s troubles are a delectable joy, but because to perceive you are free of them yourself is pleasant.
My problem isn’t death but old age. I fret about my lack of balance, my buckling knee, my difficulty standing up and sitting down.
You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
Honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
I define poetry as celebration and confrontation. When we witness something, are we responsible for what we witness? That’s an on-going existential question. Perhaps we are and perhaps there’s a kind of daring, a kind of necessary energetic questioning. Because often I say it’s not what we know, it’s what we can risk discovering.
And don’t consult anyone’s opinions but your own.