Sexual intercourse began in 1963 ... / Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ and the Beatles first LP

Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.

Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.

Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!