“That’s my only concern. Everything else seems wrong.”

I have no desire to dress up my poetry and make it fancy.

I want the poem to be as true as humanly possible to the feeling that inspired it.

Suffering belongs to no language.

Destiny doesn’t exist. It’s God we need, and fast.

Wars–and what is war except crime on a mass scale?–destroy rather than produce.

You remember too much,” my mother said to me recently. “Why hold onto all that?” And I said, “where can I put it down?

A boy and a girl started dating after he backed his car into hers.

Lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper.

I thrive on that; I rise to the occasion of the circumstances.

Cooking is the showy side of domesticity.

Whatever dressing one gives to mushrooms, to whatever sauces our Apiciuses put them, they are not really good but to be sent back to the dungheap where they are born.

The most important task of your life is not what you do, but who you become.