What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.