I really would like to stop working forever–never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I’m doing now–and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends. And I’d like to keep living with someone — maybe even a man — and explore relationships that way. And cultivate my perceptions, cultivate the visionary thing in me. Just a literary and quiet city-hermit existence.

There should be no distinction between what we write down, and what we really know.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

Others can measure their visions by what we see.

I am neither romantic nor a visionary, and that is my weakness and perhaps my power; at any rate it is one difference. In less romantic and visionary terms, I am a Jew, (with powers of introspection and eclecticism attendant, perhaps.) But I am alien to your natural grace, to the spirit which you would know as a participator in America.

I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.

The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.