It was a poem by Sylvia Plath called “Daddy.” Which is an amazing poem, a hate poem really, to her father, which ends up saying, “Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” Now, it’s an incredible poem because it’s sort of like a nursery rhyme. It rhymes in that way and yet it has this incredible vehemence. And it was the first time that I realized that you didn’t have to be polite. You know, you’re raised by parents who are always concerned to raise you so you aren’t a little animal, you know, in society. And I think that though they never really said directly there are things that you should or shouldn’t say in writing or in learning — they always encouraged us to go as far as we could — still, I think there was this feeling that you had to be nice. I felt that. And that was an enormous release to be able to say, “Well, it is not only the happy moments are things that should be talked about, but every moment.” All the moments that make up a human being have to be written about, talked about, painted, danced, in order to really talk about life. So it was liberating in that sense.