Ann Lauterbach told me that poetry is an art for the old.
Harry Mathews told me that a writer he knew who had won almost every prize under the sun was still fundamentally unsatisfied.
William Corbett told me that in his poems, Ted Berrigan opened his heart and said “This is who I am.”
August Kleinzahler told me that Mary Barnard was one of the two or three best female poets of the century.
Michael Palmer told me that there used to be only two cities for poetry: New York and San Francisco.
Marcella Durand told me one of John Ashbery’s favorite movies is “Dude, Where’s My Car?”
John Ashbery told me the period poetry of the 1930s was superior to the period poetry of the 1980’s.
Larry Fagin told me that he met William Empson and Mick Jagger at the same party as Charles Olson and Anne Waldman in 1966.
Robin Blaser told me there is no necessary knowledge.
Seamus Heaney told me I had given him the wrong change.
Gerrit Lansing told me he abhorred “the literary.”
C.D. Wright told me I had a horror vacui.
Edward Barrett told me he held an old Scandinavian book in his hands that he was later informed had been made of human vellum.
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