Paper has more patience than people.

I soothe my conscience now with the thought that it is better for hard words to be on paper than that Mummy should carry them in her heart.

Ordinary people simply don't know what books mean to us, shut up here. Reading, learning, and the radio are our amusements.

I'm currently in the middle of a depression. I couldn't really tell you what set it off, but I think it stems from my cowardice, which confronts me at every turn.

I want friends, not admirers. People who respect me for my character and my deeds, not my flattering smile. The circle around me would be much smaller, but what does that matter, as long as they're sincere?

I've found that there is always some beauty left -- in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these can all help you.

Memories mean more to me than dresses.