In the midst of our happiness we were very pleased.
Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.
Poetry is a dream dreamed in the presence of reason.
The art of running the mile consists, in essence, of reaching the threshold of consciousness at the instant of breasting the tape.
A work of art is never completed, merely abandoned.
The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.
There is only one plot: Things are not what they seem.
For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I already knew.
Keep your eye clear and hit ’em where they ain’t.
I like restraint—if doesn’t go too far.
Poetry begins where certitude ends.
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
Let’s play two.