ah, you always go for the ones who don't really want you

At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.

Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it. 'I love love,' she said, closing her eyes. I promised her beautiful love. I gloated over her. Our stories were told; we subsided into silence and sweet anticipatory thoughts. It was as simple as that. You could have all your Peaches and Bettys and Marylous and Ritas and Camilles and Inezes in this world; this was my girl and my kind of girlsoul, and I told her that.

You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.

Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.

I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.