The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

Soon he'll come in again and kiss me, but differently. He'll be different and so I'll be different. It'll be different. I thought, 'It'll be different, different. It must be different.

I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.

I'm no use to anybody,' I say. 'I'm a cérébrale, can't you see that?' Thinking how funny a book would be, called 'Just a Cérébrale or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, of course, to be accepted as authentic, to carry any conviction, it would have to be written by a man. What a pity, what a pity!

Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.

...I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in.

I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.