I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

And I, love, am a pathological liar.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness

I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.