Writing more and more to the sound of music, writing more and more like music. Sitting in my studio tonight, playing record after record, writing, music a stimulant of the highest order, far more potent than wine.

I only regret that everybody wants to deprive me of the journal, which is the only steadfast friend I have, the only one which makes my life bearable, because my happiness with human beings is so precarious, my confiding moods rare, and the least sign of non-interest is enough to silence me. In the journal I am at ease.

If you are terribly truthful, the ground will always move from under you, and you will have to shift with the constantly shifting truth.

There are books which we read early in life, which sink into our consciousness and seem to disappear without leaving a trace. And then one day we find, in some summing-up of our life and put attitudes towards experience, that their influence has been enormous.

Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s.

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we ... believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.