I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate; and damn, I'd better work on my character. I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer to NOT feel, NOT to let the world touch one.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.

I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

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

I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.