I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.