Not That It Was Beautiful, But That

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Home Is My Bethlehem, My Succoring Shelter, My Mental Hospital, My Wife, My Dam, My Husband, My Sir, My Womb, My Skull.

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.

Letters Are False Really - They Are Expressions Of The Way You Wish You Were Instead Of The Way You Are.