And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

I am not cruel, only truthful.