What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

Opinions are like orgasms...mine matters most and I really don't care if you have one.

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.

Your room is not your prison. You are.