But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

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

So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.

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?

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?