I Am Not Cruel, Only Truthful.

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.

What Did My Fingers Do Before They Held Him? What Did My Heart Do, With Its Love?

When I Fell Out Of The Light, I Entered The Stomach Of Indifference, The Wordless Cupboard.

The Moon, Too, Abases Her Subjects, But In The Daytime She Is Ridiculous. Your Dissatisfactions, On The Other Hand, Arrive Through The Mailslot With Loving Regularity, White And Blank, Expansive As Carbon Monoxide. No Day Is Safe From News Of You, Walking About In Africa Maybe, But Thinking Of Me.

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.