I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.

If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

I dream too much, work too little.

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.

Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --