We as Americans believe it’s OK to kill people. We believe it’s OK to invade a country that had nothing to do with 9/11. We think it’s OK to invade a country where we think Osama Bin Laden is and he’s in the other country. So we just go in and we just kill. And we have the death penalty; we sanction it.
When we give ourselves the chance to let go of all our tension, the body’s natural capacity to heal itself can begin to work.
To other countries, I may go as a tourist, but to India, I come as a pilgrim.
Thus, anybody who follows this nature and gives way its states will be led into quarrels and conflicts, and go against the conventions and rules of society, and will end up a criminal.
And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.
Picasso is what is going to happen and what is happening; he is posterity and archaic time, the distant ancestor and our next-door neighbor. Speed permits him to be two places at once, to belong to all the centuries without letting go of the here and now.
I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
I don’t go to see bands any more because I’ve got tinnitus, so I have to avoid loud music. You get used to it, but when it’s quiet you hear a constant ringing.
We make mistakes, we have our faults, and God knows some of us have more than our share, but when danger threatens and duty calls, we go smiling to our own funeral.
What I try to do is to go into a poem – and one writes them, of course, poem by poem – to go into each poem, first of all without having any sense whatsoever of where it’s going to end up.