“You think You're frightening me with Your hell, don't You? You think Your hell is worse than mine.”

“Now I know the things I know, and I do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you!”

“There's little in taking or givingThere's little in water or wineThis living, this living , this livingwas never a project of mine.Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse isthe gain of the one at the topfor art is a form of catharsisand love is a permanent flopand work is the province of cattleand rest's for a clam in a shellso I'm thinking of throwing the battlewould you kindly direct me to hell?”

“He'll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don't like you to cry. He doesn't cry. I wish to God I could make him cry. I wish I could make him cry and tread the floor and feel his heart heavy and big and festering in him. I wish I could hurt him like hell.He doesn't wish that about me. I don't think he even knows how he makes me feel. I wish he could know, without my telling him. They don't like you to tell them they've made you cry. They don't like you to tell them you're unhappy because of them. If you do, they think you're possessive and exacting. And then they hate you. They hate you whenever you say anything you really think. You always have to keep playing little games. Oh, I thought we didn't have to; I thought this was so big I could say whatever I meant. I guess you can't, ever. I guess there isn't ever anything big enough for that.”

“Coda"There's little in taking or giving,There's little in water or wine;This living, this living, this livingWas never a project of mine.Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse isThe gain of the one at the top,For art is a form of catharsis,And love is a permanent flop,And work is the province of cattle,And rest's for a clam in a shell,So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-Would you kindly direct me to hell?”

“I won't telephone him. I'll never telephone him again as long as I live. He'll rot in hell, before I'll call him up. You don't have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I am. He knows I'm waiting here. He's so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you.”

“In youth, it was a way I had,To do my best to please.And change, with every passing ladTo suit his theories.But now I know the things I knowAnd do the things I do,And if you do not like me so,To hell, my love, with you.”