If I Was Asked To

In Order Really To Write One Has To Sink Deep Into The Self And Become Lost There.

We Carry The Dead With Us Only Until We Die Too, And Then It Is We Who Are Borne Along For A Little While, And Then Our Bearers In Their Turn Drop, And So On Into The Unimaginable Generations.

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

The White May Blossom Swooned Slowly Into The Open Mouth Of The Grave.