Salary is no object: I want only enough to keep body and soul apart.

His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.

Travel, trouble, music, art, a kiss, a frock, a rhyme -- I never said they feed my heart, but still they pass my time.

My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.

There is entirely too much charm around, and something must be done to stop it.

Because your eyes are slant and slow, Because your hair is sweet to touch, My heart is high again; but oh, I doubt if this will get me much.

Sorrow is tranquility remembered in emotion.