Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

Please let him come, and give me the resilience & guts to make him respect me, be interested, and not to throw myself at him with loudness or hysterical yelling; calmly, gently, easy baby easy. He is probably strutting the backs among crocuses now with seven Scandinavian mistresses. And I sit, spiderlike, waiting, here, home; Penelope weaving webs of Webster, turning spindles of Tourneur. Oh, he is here; my black marauder; oh hungry hungry. I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait; and he plays on the banks of the river Cam like a casual faun.

Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.