I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all be pure

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?

Death is woven in with the violets,” said Louis. “Death and again death.”)

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.

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?