As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me.

Just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them, but me, who's lost my self identity.

My head's a carousel of pictures and The spinning never stops.

So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of wind up cars in motion. The …

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we read…

If we can't stamp out literature in the country, we can at least stop its being brought in from outside.