Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself. Try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way–and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity.

England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.

No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.

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

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