Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

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

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

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