The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need.

Nothing Has Changed Since I Began. My Eye Has Permitted No Change. I Am Going To Keep Things Like This.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot. Or Fly Up, And Revolve It All Slowly - I Kill Where I Please Because It Is All Mine. There Is No Sophistry In My Body: My Manners Are Tearing Off Heads - The Allotment Of Death.

There Is No Better Way To Know Us Than As Two Wolves, Come Separately To A Wood.

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.