There Is Also, In Any History, The

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?

The Truth Of A Poem Is Its Form And Its Content, Its Music And Its Meaning Are The Same.

The Fear Of Poetry Is An Indication That We Are Cut Off From Our Own Reality.

What Would Happen If One Woman Told The Truth About Her Life? The World Would Split Open.

Dreams Are The Sources Of Action, The Meeting And The End, A Resting Place Among The Flight Of Things.