Other people have faces; Susan and Jinny have faces; they are here. Their world is the real world. The things they lift are heavy. They say Yes, they say No; whereas I shift and change and am seen through in a second. If they meet a housemaid she looks at them without laughing. But she laughs at me. They know what to say if spoken to. They laugh really; they get angry really; while I have to look first and do what other people do when they have done it.

There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.

It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.

I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.

I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless searcher in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it”? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it — that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.