I wondered what I thought I was burying.

I dream too much, work too little.

I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.