Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

Is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color—it’s a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown . . . I’ve tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.

But they know. They all know. And what am I against so many…?

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.