The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

There is no life higher than the grasstops

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do. A lifetime is not long enough. Nor youth to old age long enough. Immortality and permanence be damned. Sure I want them, but they are nonexistent, and won't matter when I rot underground. All I want to say is: I made the best of a mediocre job. It was a good fight while it lasted. And so life goes.