The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.

[in the]..curious way that my idealism has been mixed with my fatalism, so that I can possess the soul of a dreamer and that of a cynic at the same time......I possess a power of magic...[to] destroy the balance of a well-designed destiny with my diabolical mind.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

One discovers that destiny can be diverted, that one does not have to remain in bondage to the first wax imprint made on childhood sensibilities. Once the deforming mirror has been smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness. There is a possibility of joy.

You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.

To love and to labor is the sum of living.