We slept one either side of him in the huge bed, in most of our clothes. He was in gray jersey shorts. He smelled expensive; I remember that. I remember the expensive-feeling hotel room darkness, too, and thinking that I was there on false pretenses, really, that it was like being thrown forward in life. There was a lot I had to do before he and I could really be friends. He was twenty-nine and successful. I’d done nothing. I looked like nothing. I had to finish my exams, do my A-levels; I had to leave home, get my degree, become a person in the world.

There’s a real closeness between imagination and forgiveness. I mean that in a phenomenological way. If you notice where you go when you have to forgive someone, it’s the place of supply, the place of extra. I think it’s worth spending a lot of time attending to that, so that when chance or fate or whatever it is knocks a poem your way, you’re ready. That’s why I’m quite often driven to say that it’s more important to do the work on one’s character than on the words. Don’t surround yourself with dictionaries. What really is nauseating in a poem is when you smell somebody trying to be a poet, and when it’s yourself, that’s just the worst of all. But a voice is such an incredible thing. When you think of how each person resonates differently and their physical voice comes out of this space that is tuned by tension and confidence and generosity—that’s the best thing you have.