She wrote to him fairly regularly, from a paradise of triple exclamation points and inaccurate observations.

I have so much I want to tell you, and nowhere to begin.

How do you know you're going to do something, untill you do it?

However contradictory the coroner's report — whether he pronounces Consumption or Loneliness or Suicide to be the cause of death — isn't it plain how the true artist-seer actually dies? I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own sacred human conscience.

Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first one who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior.

I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. Sometimes, I act a lot older than I am--I really do. But people never notice it. People never notice anything.

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.