The reason I haven't been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven't had one decent coherent thought to put down.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.