I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

I burn the way money burns.

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]