It is only our conception of time that makes us call the Last Judgement by this name. It is, in fact, a kind of martial law.

Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

It is strange how little sharpsightedness women possess; they only notice whether they please, then whether they arouse pity, and finally, whether you look for compassion from them. That is all; come to think of it, it may even be enough, generally speaking.

My job is unbearable to me because it conflicts with my only desire and my only calling, which is literature. Since I am nothing but literature and can and want to be nothing else, my job will never take possession of me, it may, however, shatter me completely, and this is by no means a remote possibility.

Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.

It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go.

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.