* to know a lot of people I love pieces of, and to want to synthesize those pieces in me somehow, be it by painting or writing. * to know that millions of others are unhappy and that life is a gentleman's agreement to grin and paint your face gay so others will feel they are silly to be unhappy, and try to catch the contagion of joy, while inside so many are dying of bitterness and unfulfillment.

I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.

I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative--which ever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.

How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?