The End Of Art Is Peace.

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

Even If The Last Move Did Not Succeed, The Inner Command Says Move Again.

The Whole Relationship Between A Writer's Spiritual/emotional Condition And The Kind Of Wordstuff And Form-making That's Going On In His Work Is An Interesting One. When I Was An Undergraduate, There Was A Glib Notion Around That There Was No Reason To Suppose A Bad Man Could Be A Good Writer.

My Body Was Braille For The Creeping Influences.

I Drink To Keep Body And Soul Apart.