Being always overavid, I demand from those I love a love equal to mine, which, being balanced people, they cannot supply.

As the blackness of the night recedes so does the nadir of yesterday. The child I am forgets so quickly.

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.

When love turns away, now, I don't follow it. I sit and suffer, unprotesting, until I feel the tread of another step.

It's just as possible to live to the full in a narrow corner as it is in bigness.

We already have so much pressure towards sameness through radio, film and comic outside the school, that we can't afford to do a thing inside that is not toward individual development.

No other job in the world could possibly dispossess one so completely as this job of teaching. You could stand all day in a laundry, for instance, still in possession of your mind. But this teaching utterly obliterates you. It cuts right into your being: essentially, it takes over your spirit. It drags it out from where it would hide.