I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

Compared with me, a tree is immortal.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.

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