I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by myself all night something of the city's mystery and magnificence might rub off on me at last. But I gave it up.
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...
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...
The day I went into physics class it was death.
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...
I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.
It seems this is an age of clever critics who keep bewailing the fact that there are no works worthy of criticism.
There was a beautiful time...
I am too pure for you or anyone.
A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
I have a visual imagination.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
She has foldedThem back into her body as petalsOf a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odours bleedFrom the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring...
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
What a man is is an arrow into the future, and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
My mother's face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth birthday. A daughter in an asylum! I had done that to her. Still, she had obvio...