My Heart I'm not going to cry all the time nor shall I laugh all the time, I don't prefer one "strain" to another. I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie, not just a sleeper, but also the big, overproduced first-run kind. I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says "That's not like Frank!," all to the good! I don't wear brown and grey suits all the time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera, often. I want my feet to be bare, I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--you can't plan on the heart, but the better part of it, my poetry, is open.

You just go on your nerve.

And don't worry about your lineage poetic or natural.

The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it.

I am ashamed of my century for being so entertaining but I have to smile.

But it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night wondering whether you are any good or not and the only decision you can make is that you did it.

I loved her fright, which was against me into the air! and the diamond white of her forelock which seemed to smart with thoughts as my heart smarted with life! and she'd toss her head with the pain and paw the air and champ the bit, as if I were Endymion and she, moon-like, hated to love me.