The artist’s life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.
Sunday-the doctor’s paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
I want to be silverly beautiful.
And there’s the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.
The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.
I woke to the sound of rain.
With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you; which will always be.
Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
I had decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover.
I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
Not being perfect hurts.
She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.
I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.