But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.

I think I am mad sometimes.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard's study; because he would make love to me I am sending back the key; in his eye's darkroom I can see my X-rayed heart, dissected body: I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard s study.

I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.

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

O heart, such disorganization!