I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.