I Was Much Influenced By Jean-paul Sartre.

My Thoughts Are Crowded With Death And It Draws So Oddly On The Sexual That I Am Confused To Be Attracted By, In Effect, My Own Annihilation.

We Learned In The University To Consider Wordsworth And Keats As Romantics. They Were Only A Generation Apart, But Wordsworth Didn't Even Read Keats's Book When He Gave Him A Copy.

I Haven't Written Anything In Four Years. I'm Sort Of Dried Up.

How Sociable The Garden Was. We Ate And Talked In Given Light. The Children Put Their Toys To Grass All The Warm Wakeful August Night.

The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate Candor And Secrecy Inside The Skin.