The beginner hugs his infant poem to him and does not want it to grow up. But you may have to break your poem to remake it.
I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful hault, 'won't go,' or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person's face.
In a total work, the failures have their not unimportant place.
Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
I find that when I have any appointment, even an afternoon one, it changes the whole quality of time. I feel overcharged. There is no space for what wells up from the subconscious; those dreams and images live in deep still water and simply submerge when the day gets scattered.
Growing old is, of all things we experience, that which takes the most courage, and at a time when we have the least resources, especially with which to meet frustration.
Routine is not a prison, but the way into freedom from time.
Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.
O cruel cloudless space, And pale bare ground where the poor infant lies! Why do we feel restored As in a sacramental place? Here Mystery is artifice, And here a vision of such peace is stored, Healing flows from it through our eyes.
Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.
I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.
People are always talking about the joys of youth-but, oh, how youth can suffer!
Human relations just are not fixed in their orbits like the planets -- they're more like galaxies, changing all the time, exploding into light for years, then dying away.
Real joy is becoming exceedingly rare among artists of any kind. And I have an idea that those who can and do communicate it are always people who have had a hard time. Then the joy has no smugness or self-righteousness in it, is inclusive not exclusive, and comes close to prayer.
Though friendship is not quick to burn it is explosive stuff.
For after all we make our faces as we go along.
Fighting dragons is my holy joy.
Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.
I know you have much to bear with in me, and I really do sometimes in you, but I have never looked at friendship in a deep sense as easy or entirely comfortable.
Excellence costs a great deal.
A good marriage shuts out a very great deal.
A holiday gives one a chance to look backward and forward; to reset oneself by an inner compass.
I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.
There was such a thing as women's work and it consisted chiefly, Hilary sometimes thought, in being able to stand constant interruption and keep your temper. . . .
...I feel more alive when I'm writing than I do at any other time--except when I'm making love. Two things when you forget time, when nothing exists except the moment--the moment of writing, the moment of love. That perfect concentration is bliss.
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