The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

If You Tell A Novelist, 'life's Not Like That', He Has To Do Something About It. The Poet Simply Replies, 'no, But I Am.'

When I Get Sent Manuscripts From Aspiring Poets, I Do One Of Two Things: If There Is No Stamped Self-addressed Envelope, I Throw It Into The Bin.-if There Is, I Write And Tell Them To F**k Off.