[...] language can go anywhere we like. [...] Language is all we really have. The rest is the stuff itself.

"These days may very well be the happiest of my life". They are certainly the happiest now.

I'm free. That's the source of the happiness. I owe nobody anything. I've paid all debts, I'm earning a living, I go and come as I please, I retire and rise when I please. I am free.

I saw the unbelievable light of the sun at six this morning, and went back to bed, to sleep some more. I slept and dreamed, and rejoiced in it, knowing I slept and dreamed, and got up at almost eleven entirely pleased about starting the day at such a late hour, and went out to the street and began to walk. [...] I was a king out there.

Turnips. There comes a time when turnips must be considered, along with literary style, personal integrity, and universal meaning. The greens of turnips stewed [...] have a flavor that is so deeply satisfying that one is at a loss to understand how such a simple member of the vegetable family can mean so much to the soul in the body. [...] I feel rare salts and minerals of mystic power charging through the liquids of the body and making everything else stand up and cheer. [...] It is necessary to consider, to the end of time and life, the other things, the big things, but now and then one must remember at least for a moment or two turnips and their greens.

One works at an image of self from early in one's life, and true or false, or by turns true and false, the image settles down to something like second nature - if not real nature - it is a creation, an achievement, and then the making of it is forgotten and it is presumed to be real.

In speculations about how the universe itself came into being, it is not strange that one of the theories is that it all started with an explosion, which in its human sexual form is at the dead center of man's truth and reality.