Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.

I feel happy to be keeping a journal again. I've missed it, missed naming things as they appear, missed the half hour when I push all duties aside and savor the experience of being alive in this beautiful place.

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

Without anxiety life would have very little savor.

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?

It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.

The woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist it is mandatory. Unable to fulfill it, he goes mad. But when the artist is a woman she fulfills it at the expense of herself as a woman.