It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

Sometimes a writer simply finds new ways of saying what has already been said because, ultimately, truth is unoriginal.

For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something — distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world — but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

Because at night
when others are sleeping,
I drown myself
in poetry.

I am going to build a fortress of books.
Will you come inside and live with me?