So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

You are who you choose to be.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

The dreamer in her Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it. That moment the dreamer in me Fell in love with her and I knew it

The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

Your insult by the ungodliness and injustice in the land is a force.

When we see somebody in a difficult situation, we can understand them only if we had the same experience and had lived through it. Otherwise, we just think we know.

After twelve centuries, a little hope had come into the world - and then came an illiterate prince to ride roughshod over it with a barbarian horde and...

Often what feels like the end of the world is really a challenging pathway to a far better place.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

Once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense.

I'm a magician. I've learned to do some really cool tricks like levitating myself and melting forks.

The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder.

The man who forms the habit of beginning without finishing has simply formed the habit of failure.

The pollen count, now that's a difficult job. Especially if you've got hay fever.