O God, In The Dream The Terrible

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

The Art Of One Period Cannot Be Approached Through The Attitudes (emotional Or Intellectual) Of Another.

It Is Almost Impossible For The Poetess, Once Laurelled, To Take Off The Crown For Good Or To Reject Values And Taste Of Those Who Tender It.

Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony As A Statue Is Carved Out Of Marble.

... Politics Are Nothing But Sand And Gravel: It Is Art And Life That Feed Us Until We Die. Everything Else Is Ambition, Hysteria Or Hatred.