But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?

I think I may well be a Jew.

Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?