No day is safe from news of you.
O myHomunculus, I am ill.I have taken a pill to killThe thinPapery feeling.From the poem Cut, 24 October 1962
Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.
Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark...
Sure, I’m dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But, in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on the edge. We all are on the brink, and it takes a lot of ner...
The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.
The first time I saw a fingerbowl was at the home of my benefactress. [...] The water had a few cherry blossoms in it, and I thought it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate ev...
The more hopeless you were, the farther away they hid you.
The same thing happened over and over: I would catch sight of some flawless man in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.Once you were beautiful.
There I went again, building p a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few posy nothings.
Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can nev...
When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower fro...
Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but...
You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time...
You felt no reality. Only a weariness, a longing for a shoulder to sleep on, a pair of arms to curl up in — and a lack of that now.
You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
You were doing fine, a familiar voice informed my ear, until that man stepped into your path.
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