I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.

O heart, such disorganization!

I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.