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The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

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Its snaky acids kiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

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I am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

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Slowly I swam up from the bottom of a black sleep.

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I don't know how long I kept at it...I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still.It didn't seem to be summer any more

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We’ll take up where we left off, Esther’, she had said, with her sweet martyr’s smile. ‘We’ll act as if all this were a bad dream.’ A bad dream. To th...more

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I knew I should be grateful to Mrs Guinea, only I couldn't feel a thing. If Mrs Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, i...more

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Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and...more

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She looked terrible, but very wise.

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My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

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Not easy to state the change you made.If I'm alive now, I was dead,Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of starsLetting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhi...more

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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horro...more