The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

In Spite Of Everything, I Still Have My Good Old Sense Of Humor.

Ironically, Henry James' Biography Comforts Me & I Long To Make Known To Him His Posthumous Reputation He Wrote, In Pain, Gave All His Life (which Is More Than I Could Think Of Doing I Have Ted, Will Have Children But Few Friends) & The Critics Insulted & Mocked Him, Readers Didn't Read Him.

What Is So Real As The Cry Of A Child? A Rabbit's Cry May Be Wilder But It Has No Soul.

I Wanted To Be Where Nobody I Knew Could Ever Come.

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.