The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

Is there no way out of the mind?

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.