I wouldn’t mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.
I can’t understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It’s like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
Life has a practice of living you, if you don’t live it.
Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.