I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.

It was like the first time i saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward the cadavers head, or what was left of it - floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and in the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadavers head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.

A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.