I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.

Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.