This handwritten in a preface of a book of poetry by my mother in January of 1957 when she was 21:
“There is something satisfying about making a book oneself – of giving so much paper and a little ink a kind of personality, a place of its own on a shelf! And then, authors never wish to face oblivion: such a great deal of scrap paper is proof of this desire. Vanitas, Vanitas!
And so for this space of a moment, this book may rescue me from forgetfulness and from being forgotten – not by others, but merely by myself. Many of these poems are what I was and I should not like to lose the memory, even if later it recalls only what I once was and it does not indicate what I have since become; even if the memory calls up only the beginning and end of my endeavor.”