Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.

I didn't know shorthand either. This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand would be something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter. The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.