I find I always have to write something on a steamed mirror.

I don't always understand other people's motives. I will repeat that for my own benefit, if you don't mind. I don't always understand other people's motives.

It's difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really *have* lived; that I never really will live--exist or whatever--in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else's life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I'd like to break through it just once and actually touch one.

What’s the use of remembering anything? If it was unpleasant it was unpleasant and if it was pleasant it’s over.

The vehemence of my moral indignation surprised me. Was I beginning to have standards and principles, and, oh dear, scruples? What were they, and what would I do with them, and how much were they going to get in my way?

I find I always have to write something on a steamed mirror.

Oh, Teddy, darling, thank you, thank you, for restoring my cynicism. I was too young to lose it.