I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue. Instead of the world being divided up into Catholics and Protestants or Republicans and Democrats or white men and black men or even men and women, I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn’t, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another.

I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?