It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I wondered what I thought I was burying.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

This is newness: every little tawdry Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There's no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe. We have only come to look. You are too new To want the world in a glass hat.