When you're reading Thoreau you look at Hollywood differently, let me tell ya!
Spring is the shortest season.
Poetry is not a code to be broken but a way of seeing with the eyes shut.
I made a list of things I have to remember and a list of things I want to forget, but I see they are the same list.
There are poems that are never written, that simply move across the mind like skywriting on a still day: slowly the first word drifts west, the last letters dissolve on the tongue, and what is left is the pure blue of insight, without cloud or comfort.
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book and these things bear our names - now they want us. But what we want appears in dreams, wearing disguises. We fall past, holding out our arms and in the morning our arms ache. We don't remember the dream, but the dream remembers us. It is there all day as an animal is there under the table, as the stars are there.
I am tired of the litany of months, September October I am tired of the way the seasons keep changing, mimicking the seasons of the flesh which are real and finite.
Where is your unit?" Murphy asked. I wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Right where it's always been, dollface.
One can lose a good idea by not writing it down, yet by losing it one can have it: it nourishes other asides it knows nothing of, would not recognize itself in, yet when the negotiations are terminated, speaks in the acts of that progenitor, and does recognize itself, is grateful for not having done so earlier.
Today, no matter where I am going, no matter what I am doing, it is my dominant intent to be good to me.
I had a great tennis career. I have no regrets. But to find peace with yourself, and to finally be with your family - I'm probably the happiest guy in the world.