I am too pure for you or anyone.
I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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.
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.
Excellent teachers showered on to us like meteors: Biology teachers holding up human brains, English teachers inspiring us with a personal ideological fierceness about Tolstoy and Plato, Art teachers leading us through the slums of Boston, then back to the easel to hurl public school gouache with social awareness and fury.
I don’t believe that the meek will inherit the earth; The meek get ignored and trampled.