On childhood: What we forget as children is that our parents children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied, met or loved, often. Not always, but very often. Oftener, actually, than is admitted.
On growth: I am shedding the past. It comes off me like scales.
On reading: Poetry always goes straight to the marrow.
On writing: Always, both when I started and now, to me writing is a covert act.