because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy & peaceful.

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.

I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.