America Hates The Artist. It

Either One Fails In One's Art Or In One's Life.

Human Beings Can Reach Such Desperate Solitude That They May Cross A Boundary Beyond Which Words Cannot Serve, And At Such Moments There Is Nothing Left For Them But To Bark.

I Am Aware Of Being In A Beautiful Prison, From Which I Can Only Escape By Writing.

Some People Read To Confirm Their Own Hopelessness. Others Read To Be Rescued From It.

Your Strength Is Soft, Indirect, Delicate, Tender, Womanly. But It Is Strength Just The Same.