Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.

My diary seems to keep me whole.

perhaps the only magician we have is the artist.

When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?

Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .

I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.