You Cannot Save People. You Can Only

America Hates The Artist. It Will Not Admit: The Artist Is My Soul And I Want To Kill Off My Soul.

Writing More And More To The Sound Of Music, Writing More And More Like Music. Sitting In My Studio Tonight, Playing Record After Record, Writing, Music A Stimulant Of The Highest Order, Far More Potent Than Wine.

Idealism Is The Death Of The Body And The Imagination. All But Freedom, Utter Freedom, Is Death

To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate, To Go Underground.

I Disregard The Proportions, The Measures, The Tempo Of The Ordinary World. I Refuse To Live In The Ordinary World As Ordinary Women. To Enter Ordinary Relationships. I Want Ecstasy. I Am A Neurotic — In The Sense That I Live In My World. I Will Not Adjust Myself To The World. I Am Adjusted To Myself.