The story of my life is about back entrances, side doors, secret elevators and other ways of getting in and out of places so that people won't bother me.
I wish I were supernaturally strong so I could put right everything that is wrong.
I live like a monk: with one toothbrush, one cake of soap, and a pot of cream.
I always wanted to do my best. I got nothing free—I had to work hard.
Is there anything better than to be longing for something, when you know it is within reach?
Why should you care for a woman like me? I'm always nervous or sick, or sad or too gay.