“I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.”

“Love, love,I have hung our cave with roses.”

“I am too pure for you or anyone.From the poem "Fever 103°", 20 October 1962”

“When I walk out, I am a great event. I do not have to think, or even rehearse.What happens in me will happen without attention.The pheasant stands on the hill;He is arranging his brown feathers.I cannot help smiling at what it is I know. Leaves and petals attend me. I am ready.”

“And I, love, am a pathological liar.”

“I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.”

“I am accused. I dream of massacres.I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now theworld conceivesIts end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.”