My Diary Seems To Keep

She Had Acquired Some Of His Gypsy Ways, Some Of His Nonchalance, His Bohemian Indiscipline. She Had Swung With Him Into The Disorders Of Strewn Clothes, Spilled Cigarette Ashes, Slipping Into Bed All Dressed, Falling Asleep Thus, Indolence, Timelessness...a Region Of Chaos And Moonlight. She Liked It There.

The Inner Chambers Of The Soul Are Like The Photographer's Darkroom. Like A Laboratory. One Cannot Stay There All The Time Or It Becomes The Solitary Cell Of The Neurotic.

My Ideas Usually Come Not At My Desk Writing But In The Midst Of Living.

To Write At The Same Temperature At Which I Live I Should Write Nothing But Poetry.

The Suppression Of Inner Patterns In Favor Of Patterns Created By Society Is Dangerous To Us.