I dream too much, work too little.

Why honey, don't you want to get dressed?" My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon." I'm writing a novel," I said. "I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.

Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.