It's no good. I've been trying to sleep for the last half-hour, and I can't. Writing here is a sort of drug. It's the only thing I look forward to. This afternoon I read what I wrote... And it seemed vivid. I know it seems vivid because my imagination fills in all the bits another person wouldn't understand. I mean, it's vanity. But it seems a sort of magic... And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did

Art is a statement of one in the face of all; not a statement by one for the use of all.

Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.

They looked down on her; and she looked up through them.

Stained glass, engraved glass, frosted glass; give me plain glass.

They're beautiful. But sad.' Everything's sad if you make it so, I said.

You come to the United States not knowing what to expect. Then all your worst prejudices are confirmed.