My mother smiled. I knew my baby wasn't like that.I looked at her. Like what?Like those awful people. Those awful dead people at that hospital. She paused. I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
I'm never going to get married.You're crazy. Buddy brightened. You'll change your mind.No. My mind's made up.
I woke to the sound of rain.
A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
Very few people do this any more. It's too risky. First of all, it's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it. I thought I...
Poetry at its best can do you a lot of harm.
In the German tongue, in the Polish townScraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars ...
How we need another soul to cling to.
It seems this is an age of clever critics who keep bewailing the fact that there are no works worthy of criticism.
The worst enemy to creativity is self doubt
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
You will never win anyone through pity. You must create the right kind of dream, the sober, adult kind of magic: illusion born from disillusion.
Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my...
I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to t...
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a shal...
DADDYYou do not do, you do not doAny more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you.You died before...
But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.