I Hoard Books. They Are People Who

O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick With Your Heat, Let Me Be Feverish And Frowning.

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

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

All I Am Is The Trick Of Words Writing Themselves.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.