I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any - after all, most people are unhappy, don't you think?
Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.
I didn't choose poetry: poetry chose me.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action