It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.