We know there are poets who are chosen: by what or whom, we no more know than what lies beyond our final breath, or what caused a certain action which resulted in the fulfillment or the desecration and collapse of what we most cared for in life.
What I myself experience is indescribable gratitude in the face of God’s perpetual and preemptive love, a love which is not contingent upon requital or even belief in His existence.
When I’m in certain moods, a conversation will start up in my head, and suddenly I’ll realize that the language has reached a very high and interesting level, and then lines and stanzas will just kind of appear, full-blown.
I used to comfort myself with the idea of a book with serrated, detachable pages, so that you could read the thing the way it came and then shuffle the pages, like a giant deck of cards, and read the book in an entirely different order. It would be a different book, wouldn’t it? It would be one of infinite books.
Bread for myself is a material question. Bread for my neighbor is a spiritual one.
The end of science is not to prove a theory, but to improve mankind.
For about twenty years, if I managed to write ten or twelve poems in a year; I considered that a pretty successful year, but I wrote ‘The Beforelife’ within a year.
There are people who recall my father as a saint and a monster. I’m quite sure I will share the same fate.
The enslaving of the other is also the enslaving of the self.
I write and have done so primarily for personal pleasure.