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. . . .
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.
Gardening is the instrument of grace.
At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.
I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.
It is the privilege of those who fear love to murder those who do not fear it!
For me the moral dilemma this past year has been how to make peace with the unacceptable.
We only keep what we lose.
Excellence costs a great deal.
...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.
What can I have that I still want?
Time spent with poets is never wasted.
Mountains define you. You cannot define / Them.
I write poems, have always written them, to transcend the painfully personal and reach the universal.
Poetry has a way of teaching one what one needs to know ... if one is honest.
Death does frame a person and somehow it is the good that stays.
each new poem is partly propelled by the formal energies of all the poems that have preceded it in the history of literature.
The price of being oneself is so high and involves so much ruthlessness toward others (or what looks like ruthlessness in our duty-bound culture) that very few people can afford it.
I sometimes think men don't 'hear' very well, if I take your meaning to be 'understand what is going on in a person.' That's what makes them so restful. Women wear each other out with their everlasting touching of the nerve.
For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting and tormented self...I am unable to become what I see. I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful halt, "won't go".
This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word ... takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated; all is concentrated within.
I believe that children long for form just as grownups do, and that it releases rather than cramps creative energy.
The fact is that I have lived with the belief that power, any kind of power, was the one thing forbidden to poets. ... Power requires that the inner person never be unmasked. No, we poets have to go naked. And since this is so, it is better that we stay private people; a naked public person would be rather ridiculous, what?
I am realizing once and for all the difference as far as I am concerned of women and men and the necessity for both. With a man, however tender he is, one is feeding him - one is always and eternally understanding, mothering, supplying him with faith in himself (not in you).
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