Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.