…'It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.

A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my willpower? The idea of a life gets in the way of my life...I dream too much, work too little.