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

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

If you dissect a bird / to diagram the tongue, / you'll cut the chord / articulating song.

I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.