New poems no longer come to me with their prodigies of metaphor and assonance. Prose endures. I feel the circles grow smaller, and old age is a ceremony of losses, which is, on the whole, preferable to dying at forty-seven or fifty-two.
Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth – look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.
If I do a poetry reading I want people to walk out and say they feel better for having been there – not because you’ve done a comedy performance but because you’re talking about your father dying or having young children, things that touch your soul.
Who wants a world in which the guarantee that we shall not die of starvation entails the risk of dying of boredom?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.
I am dying soon, and I am choosing to have fun today, tomorrow and every other day I have left.
Patriots always talk of dying for their country and never of killing for their country.
Why go for a costly, sickly, mass-produced purebred when shelters are full of one-of-a-kind mixed breeds who are literally dying for a home?
Joy of living is sustainable; fear of dying is not.
Dying is a wild night and a new road.