I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

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

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

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

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.