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.

The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

I don't see,' I said, 'how people stand being old. Your insides all dry up. When you're young you're so self-reliant. You don't even need much religion.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.