There is a certain justice in criticism. The critic is like a midwife - a tyrannical midwife.

So i learned both to accept myself and to aim beyond myself.

When you read and understand a poem, then you master chaos a little.

What the eye delights in, no longer dictates My greed to enjoy: boys, grass, the fenced-off deer. It leaves those figures that distantly play On the horizon’s rim: they sign their peace, in games.

Cult: simply an extension of the idea that everyone’s supreme aim in life is self- fulfillment and happiness and that one is entitled to wreck marriage, children and certainly one’s health and sanity in pursuit of this.

I’m struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.

Paul Valery speaks of the ‘une ligne donnee’ of a poem. One line is given to the poet by God or by nature, the rest he has to discover for himself.

There is a certain justice in criticism. The critic is like a midwife – a tyrannical midwife.

I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire’s center.

Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger My daughter as we walk together now. All my life I’ll feel a ring invisibly Circle this bone with shining When she is grown.