If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.