There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.

I suppose one has to remember that 'life' is important too, though it's something I forget in some moods, everything except work seeming like an interruption or really non-life.

We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.

Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed

There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.

An old body when it is loved becomes a sacred treasure; and sex itself must always, it seems to me, come to us as a sacrament and be so used or it is meaningless. The flesh is suffused by the spirit, and it is forgetting this in the act of love-making that creates cynicism and despair.

This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word ... takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated; all is concentrated within.