Before I discovered poetry—whimsically at thirteen, seriously at fifteen—I entertained several fantastic enthusiasms. As a boy, aged five to ten, I planned to be an astronaut. That dream faded when I learned—drat!—that wearing glasses disqualified me for the military pilot . . .
Herpatologist. In 1976 I was ten years old and about as ugly as a wet stoat, and by no little coincidence I spent a certain about of time by myself. In the summers, while the other boys were out on . . .
I moved to New York about two years ago. It was meant to be a short stay and we were lucky enough to find a loft in SoHo that we could rent for three months. The entire deal was anonymous—we . . .
There were two alternatives that presented themselves to me during my teens. What I was told I would or should be, and what I wished to be. Every year, at my school in England, career advisers arrived, spoke to you . . .