The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

I am myself. That is not enough.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.