“Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?”

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

You are like nobody since I love you.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

I’m not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

Someday, somewhere – anywhere, unfailingly, you’ll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

It was the most beautiful evening, with the lake as blue as a cornflower and the sky flecked with rosy clouds. They held their hard-boiled eggs in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other, munching happily.

Afterward, I had the last laugh. I made an air bubble at the bottom of the lake. Our friends kept waiting for us to come up, but hey-when you are the son of Poseidon, you don’t have to hurry. And it was pretty much the best underwater kiss of all time.

Soon they were all sitting on the rocky ledge, which was still warm, watching the sun go down into the lake.

The Mediterranean will be turned into an Italian lake.

It means being willing to do whatever it takes for as long as it takes. This is the warrior’s way. No excuses, no ifs, no butts, no maybes-and failure isn’t an option. The warrior’s way is simple: “I will be rich or I will die trying.”

We grew up in the Rose Park section of Salt Lake City. It’s a good neighborhood but a tough one, on the poor side but proud.

I went to the Lake District to see what kind of a country it could be that would produce a Wordsworth.

All I know how to do is take what’s on my mind and spit it out funny. I don’t know what else I could do besides comedy.