I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Music my rampart, and my only one.

A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

The only people I really hate are servants. They're not really human beings at all.

I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear

I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.

Oh, you mean I'm a homosexual! Of course I am, and heterosexual too, but what's that got to do with my headache?