The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

I think I may well be a Jew.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.

They would grow old. They would forget me.