It was like the first time i saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward the cadavers head, or what was left of it - floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and in the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadavers head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.

I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.

It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is certainly the superior one. She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints. At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality- She lay in bed with me like a dead body And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints. I couldn't sleep for a week she was so cold.

I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.