I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches? - Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.

To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.

For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.