Everything in my life affects my writing. There are no separate parts of my life.
I’m a poet, and I spent my life in poetry.
If I were to tell you that your life is already perfect, whole, and complete just as it is, you would think I was crazy. Nobody believes his or her life is perfect. And yet there is something within each of us that basically knows we are boundless, limitless.
Life is not having been told that the man has just waxed the floor.
As we get rich, the basics of life – food, clothing and shelter – become a very small part of total expenditure. And people have enough money to purchase things that enhance them spiritually, and I mean the word ‘spiritual’ not necessarily in a religious sense but in the sense that it adds to your feeling of well-being.
There is not in the world so toilsome a trade as the pursuit of fame; life concludes before you have so much as sketched your work.
As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.
If I was freer than I had ever been in my life, I was not yet entirely free, for I still hung on to an idea that had been set deep in me by all my schooling so far: I was a bright boy and I ought to make something out of myself… something else that would be a cut or two above my humble origins.
Anything for a quiet life.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.