For In Spite Of The Snapdragons And

We Could Think Or Feel As We Wished Toward The Characters, Or As The Poet, Discounting History, Invited Us To; We Were The Poet's Guest, His World Was His Own Kingdom, Reached, As One Of The Poems Told Us, Through The 'ring Of Words.

When I First Began This Diary I Said I Would Give A Record Of My Inner Life. I Begin To Wonder If I Have Said Anything About My Inner Life. What If I Have No Inner Life?

The Only Certainty About Writing And Trying To Be A Writer Is That It Has To Be Done, Not Dreamed Of Or Planned And Never Written, Or Talked About (the Ego Eventually Falls Apart Like A Soaked Sponge), But Simply Written; It's A Dreadful, Awful Fact That Writing Is Like Any Other Work.

For Your Own Good Is A Persuasive Argument That Will Eventually Make A Man Agree To His Own Destruction.

Very Often The Law Of Extremity Demands An Attention To Irrelevance.