It is only when we can believe that we are creating the soul that life has any meaning, but when we can believe it—and I do and always have—then there is nothing we do that is without meaning and nothing that we suffer that does not hold the seed of creation in it.
Solitude itself is a way of waiting for the unaudible and the invisible to make itself felt. And that is why solitude is never static and never hopeless. On the other hand, every friend who comes to stay enriches the solitude forever; presence, if it has been real presence, does not ever leave.
Routine is not a prison, but the way into freedom from time. The apparently measured time has unmeasurable space within it, and in this resembles music.
Art must be nurished by faith, the faith of an equal.
I would live my life buring it up as I go along, so that at the end nothing is left unused, so that every piece of it has been consumed in the work.
At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.
There is no being sure of anything except that whatever has been created will change in time, and sometimes quite erratically.
I am, I think, more of a poet..., if to be a poet means allowing life to flow through one rather than forcing it into a mold the will has shaped: if it means learning to let the day shape the work, not the work, the day, and so live toward essence as naturally as a bird or a flower.
The inner world, the world of poetry, is as much nurished by the bad times as by anything.
I am not really a good host because even the dearest and long-expected guest is an interuption to the extended meditations of my deepest life here.
It always comes back to the same necessity: go deep enough and there is a bedrock of truth, however hard.
I am alone here for the first time in weeks to take up my “real” life again at last. That is what is strange — that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life, unless there is time alone to explore and to discover what is happening or has happened.