Death Meant Little To Me.

I Take Much Pleasure In Being Alone But There Is Also A Strange Warm Grace In Not Being Alone.

Long Before I Became 'rich And Famous' I Just Sat Round Drinking Wine And Staring At The Walls.

I Don't Remember Going To Bed, But In The Morning, There I Was.

I Hid In Bars, Because I Didn't Want To Hide In Factories.

I Should Think That Many Of Our Poets, The Honest Ones, Will Confess To Having No Manifesto. It Is A Painful Confession But The Art Of Poetry Carries Its Own Powers Without Having To Break Them Down Into Critical Listings. I Do Not Mean That Poetry Should Be Raffish And Irresponsible Clown Tossing Off Words Into The Void. But The Very Feeling Of A Good Poem Carries Its Own Reason For Being... Art Is Its Own Excuse, And It’s Either Art Or It’s Something Else. It’s Either A Poem Or A Piece Of Cheese.