So Many Names, There Is Barely Room

I Felt At Some Point That I Had Nothing To Lose, And [laughs] Maybe I Was Wrong. I Think, You Know, There's Always These Little Autobiographical Secrets Behind Things. I Think I Was Really Attacking My Earlier Self, And This Kind Of Pretentious Figure.

I See Woefully Obscure Poetry As Simply A Kind Of Verbal Rudeness.

While The Novelist Is Banging On His Typewriter, The Poet Is Watching A Fly In The Windowpane.

There Are Interesting Forms Of Difficulty, And There Are Unprofitable Forms Of Difficulty. I Mean, I Enjoy Some Difficult Poetry, But Some Of It Is Impenetrable And I Actually Wouldn't Want To Penetrate It If I Could, Perhaps.

It Is As If One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain.