“Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,Loyal to my image.”

“Please let him come, and give me the resilience & guts to make him respect me, be interested, and not to throw myself at him with loudness or hysterical yelling; calmly, gently, easy baby easy. He is probably strutting the backs among crocuses now with seven Scandinavian mistresses. And I sit, spiderlike, waiting, here, home; Penelope weaving webs of Webster, turning spindles of Tourneur. Oh, he is here; my black marauder; oh hungry hungry. I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait; and he plays on the banks of the river Cam like a casual faun. ”

“I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.”

“I cannot life for life itself: but for the words which stay the flux. My life, I feel, will not be lived until there are books and stories which relive it perpetually in time. I forget too easily how it was, and shrink to the horror of the here and now, with no past and no future. Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. The mind makes and makes, spinning its web.”

“How frail the human heart must be―a mirrored pool of thought.”

“I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.”

“My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.”