I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

It's odd how different a house feels when one is alone in it. It makes it easier to think rather private thoughts.

Father says hot water can be as stimulating as an alcoholic drink and though I never come by one...I can well believe it.

What a tiny list of friends I have! All my fault. I less and less want to see people.

The key to all knowledge comes in words of just one syllable, apparently.... There's only the last page left to write on. I'll fill it with words of just one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.

I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.

a loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.