Papa always makes it clear that he would like to know me as much more rational and lucid than the girls and women he gets to know during his analytic hours.

We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.

How one can live without being able to judge oneself, criticize what one has accomplished, and still enjoy what one does, is unimaginable to me.

Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?

How can one know anything at all about people?

The horrors of war, pale beside the loss of a mother

Who promised you that only for joy were you brought to this earth?