I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

More from Wall Street Journal 14 Nov 85

• Now, on the road to freedom, I was pausing for a moment near Temuco and could hear the voice of the water that had taught me to sing.
• A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don’t slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices.
• A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don't slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices. Memoirs, ch. 11
• all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing.
• all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing. A Dog Has Died
• Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.