Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You’ve got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you’ve got to burn away all the peripherals.
Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.
I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, “Living and feeding a man’s insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don’t have time to write”?
Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say “No, I don’t go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing.”
Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man...
And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
The reason I haven’t been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven’t had one decent coherent thought to put down.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
Like a cat I have nine times to die.
Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.
England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.
If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
That is salvation. To give of love inside. To keep love of life, no matter what, and give to others. Generously.
But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can’t put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can’t.