The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.
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.