I flung my tongue round like a cat-o'-nine-tails so that my pleasant peaceful infant room became little less than a German concentration camp as I took out on the children what life should have got.
The truth is that I am enslaved... in one vast love affair with 70 children.
I never forgive attacks on my work.
Self-forgetfulness in creativity can lead to self-transcendence.
I've got to relearn what I was supposed to have learned.
Off fall the wife, the mother, the lover, the teacher, and the violent artist takes over. I am I alone. I belong to no one but myself. I mate with no one but the spirit. I own no land, have no kin, no friend or enemy. I have no road but this one.