I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.

If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

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

They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.