I have grown weary of literature: silence alone comforts me. If I continue to write, it’s because I have nothing more to accomplish in this world except to wait for death. Searching for the word in darkness. Any little success invades me and puts me in full view of everyone. I long to wallow in the mud. I can scarcely control my need for self-abasement, my craving for licentiousness and debauchery. Sin tempts me, forbidden pleasures lure me. I want to be both pig and hen, then kill them and drink their blood.

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.