For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.

The perpetual hunger to be beautiful and that thirst to be loved which is the real curse of Eve.

before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.

I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

Have all beautiful things sad destinies?

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

I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.