I’ve meant to tell you many things about my life, & every time the moment has conquered me. I’m strangely unhappy                                                because the pattern of my life is complicated, because my nature is hopelessly complicated; & out of this, to my sorrow, pain to you must grow. The centre of me                                    is always & eternally                                                                                       a terrible pain— a curious wild pain—a searching beyond what the world contains, something transfigured & infinite—I don’t find it, I don’t think it is to be found. It’s like passionate love for a ghost. At times it fills me with rage,                                    at times with wild despair, It’s the source of gentleness & cruelty & work.                                                                         Alice Notley