It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.

England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.