I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

I am made, crudely, for success.

I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

What did my arms do before they held you?