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.

I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.

I am made, crudely, for success.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can

The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.