Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow.

And I, love, am a pathological liar.

I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.