He understands my pity for his ridiculous, humiliating physical necessity.

Nowhere is inhumanity more revealed than in hospitals.

The only abnormality is the incapacity to love.

Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.

Most artists have retired too absolutely; they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.

My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to find peace with exactly who and what I am. To take pride in my thoughts, my appearance, my talents, my flaws and to stop this incessant worrying that I can’t be loved as I am.

I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.