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He was so frail, how could your heart not break when you saw him?

Why don’t we just get drunk and walk down the middle of Fifth Avenue.

Let us stifle under mud and affirm it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.

My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.

It’s like having your parents in the room. Patrolling our sleep, our sex life.

Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.

I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.

A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey. It’s a little like cheating.

The Poet Laureate reads three poems in his New Hampshire home.

Keaton didn’t control his emotions; he put them to use.

I was bold, even reckless, in what I wrote, and in how I wrote it.

The roads have come to an end now, they don’t go any farther.

Annette. Such a little bit of a person. Emma couldn’t get over it.

An eye trained only for darkness makes for a lesser path, in art as in life.

The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.

Snow on blue roof tiles—sleeping village awakened by waves.

This so far is a haunting, the bleeding heart we used to hear about.

Her hips, her pelvis, broke free of concerns. His eyes hovered.

We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.

Barbra Nightingale

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Drowning people will do anything for air.

What did St. Teresa have in mind when she prayed to be released?

Bill Evans’s quiet solo was walking out on unbelievably thin ice.

This has been a good day. First the milestone of getting to page 300.

I was nineteen and mentally infirm when I saw the prophet Isaiah.

Mr. Holt had grown old since Beverly last saw him. He looked weary.

Does he not see our likeness? Fursten seemed to see nothing.

Their days go over in idleness, and they sigh if the wind but lift a tress.

All night, rain from the distant past. I sometimes waken as a child.

Sometimes the old men held their fishing poles like divinations.