Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

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Communication is truth; communication is happiness. To share is our duty; to go down boldly and bring to light those hidden thoughts which are the most diseased; to conceal nothing; to pretend nothing; if we are ignorant to say so; if we love our friends to let them know it.

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By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. It's the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

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

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I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

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Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins - of happiness and unhappiness.

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I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.

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I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

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Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

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My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

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