Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am made, crudely, for success.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.

A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.

Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.