I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my willpower? The idea of a life gets in the way of my life...I dream too much, work too little.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

When you are insane, you are busy being insane-all the time ... when I was crazy, that was all I was.

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

I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.