It is when you are asking about something that you realize you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it, or fashion it into a thing that carries itself.

Words bounce. Words, if you let them, will do what they want to do and what they have to do.

One of the principle qualities of pain is that it demands an explanation.

To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.

The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.

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

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against gods. In crisis their souls are visible.

Under the seams runs the pain.

When I desire you a part of me is gone.

If your way of life is writing, then everything that happens becomes a sentence.

What happens when you pray for an angel and get a vampire instead? R E Mullins

Will Human Nature destroy Nature and Humans?

Leave the body in such a way that the Supreme Power gets notified and becomes aware, attentive and receptive to receive us, the way a child returns back home after decades of touring.

A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.

I have never yet failed to get a hearing (with a Hindu) if I talk to them about forgiveness of sins and peace and rest in your heart.

Friends, you will notice that in this world there are many more ballocks than men. Remember this.

Use him wisely. Few have been given such a weapon by the gods or Fates before.

Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing.

In college, I thought I wanted to be solely an artist, and then when I got here, to college, I was like, "Okay, well I want to be a songwriter," 'cause it was like close to Nashville.

When right, I shall often be thought wrong by those whose positions will not command a view of the whole ground.