For a time, I believed not in God nor Santa Claus, but in mermaids. They seemed as logical and possible to me as the brittle twig of a seahorse in the zoo aquarium or the skates lugged up on the lines of cursing Sunday fishermen – skates the shape of old pillowslips with the full, coy lips of women.
We fitted, amusingly enough, into none of the form categories of ‘The Young American Couple’… security to us is in ourselves, and no job, not even money, can give us what we have to develop: faith in our work and hard, hard work, which is Spartan in many ways.
I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.
To me, charity often is just about giving, because you’re supposed to, or because it’s what you’ve always done – or it’s about giving until it hurts.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.
But time has set its maggot on their track.
Things have got to be wrong in order that they may be deplored.
No honest writer today can possibly avoid being influenced by Freud through his pioneering work into the Unconscious and by the influence of those discoveries on the scientific, philosophic, and artistic work of his contemporaries: but not, by any means, necessarily through Freud’s own writing.