I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.

I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.

It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water.