Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail ghosts in my room.

If she says goodbye perhaps adieu. Adieu - like those old time songs she sang. Always adieu (and all songs say it). If she too says it, or weeps, I'll take her in my arms, my lunatic. She's mad but mine, mine. What will I care for gods or devils or for Fate itself. If she smiles or weeps or both. For me.

All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.

I long to be ... Like Other People! The extraordinary, ungetatable, oddly cruel Other People, with their way of wantonly hurting and then accusing you of being thin-skinned, sulky, vindictive or ridiculous.

Blot out the moon, Pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we're for the dark So soon, so soon.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).