Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.

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

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

The last time you were happy about nothing; the first time you were afraid about nothing. Which came first?

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

Sometimes the Earth trembles; sometimes you can feel it breathe.

I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.