When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.

Each morning my characters greet me with misty faces willing, though chilled, to muster for another day's progress through the dazzling quicksand the marsh of …

I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.