What will survive of us is love.
You can look out of your life like a train & see what you're heading for, but you can't stop the train.
How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.
Poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transferance.
I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.
Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself.
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.
As a child, I thought I hated everybody, but when I grew up I realized it was just children I didn't like.
Sexual intercourse began in 1963 ... / Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ and the Beatles first LP
I'm terrified of the thought of time passing (or whatever is meant by that phrase) whether I 'do' anything or not. In a way I may believe, deep down, that doing nothing acts as a brake on 'time's - it doesn't of course. It merely adds the torment of having done nothing, when the time comes when it really doesn't matter if you've done anything or not.
I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.
Originality is being different from oneself, not others.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action
A good poem about failure is a success.
We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.
You can't put off being young until you retire.
Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.
Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don't have any kids yourself.
He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she's there all day.
Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.
Selflessness is like waiting in a hospital In a badly-fitting suit on a cold wet morning. Selfishness is like listening to good jazz With drinks for further orders and a huge fire.
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?
This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe within a wood.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.
I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.
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