One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

I cannot life for life itself: but for the words which stay the flux. My life, I feel, will not be lived until there are books and stories which relive it perpetually in time. I forget too easily how it was, and shrink to the horror of the here and now, with no past and no future. Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. The mind makes and makes, spinning its web.