This is newness: every little tawdry Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There's no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe. We have only come to look. You are too new To want the world in a glass hat.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

When you are insane, you are busy being insane-all the time ... when I was crazy, that was all I was.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.