What a crippling art writing is, no body to it, no craft, really. It's all in the mind and you never see it or feel it -- only sometimes hear it. It uses only such a small part of man. I wish I were a sculptor.

What release to write so that one forgets oneself, forgets one's companion, forgets where one is or what one is going to do next to be drenched in sleep or in the sea. Pencils and pads and curling blue sheets alive with letters heap up on the desk.

Can one make the future a substitute for the present? And what guarantee have we that the future will be any better if we neglect the present?

People talk about love as though it were something you could give, like an armful of flowers. And a lot of people give love like that -- just dump it down on top of you, a useless strong-scented burden.

Flowers always have it - poise, completion, fulfillment, perfection . . .

If one is estranged from oneself, then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others.

I had the feeling . . . that my experience was very different from other people’s. (Are we all under this illusion?)