Like a cat I have nine times to die.

That is salvation. To give of love inside. To keep love of life, no matter what, and give to others. Generously.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

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.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness