I am so infinitely happy that he loves me so much, and I pray that it will always be like this. It won't be my fault if he ever stops loving me.

I have now reached the happy age of 23. No, happy is not quite the right word. At this particular moment I am certainly not happy.

Perhaps he wanted to be alone with Dr. G., who was here, but he should have let me know. At Hoffmann's I felt I was sitting on hot coals, expecting him to arrive every moment.

I want to be a pretty corpse.

God, I am afraid he won't give me his answer today. If only somebody would help me - it is all so terribly depressing.

If I had a dog I would not feel so lonely, but I suppose that is asking for too much.

There is only one thing I want. I would like to be seriously ill, and to hear nothing more about him for at least a week. Why doesn't something happen to me? Why do I have to go through all this? If only I had never set eyes on him!