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

When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.

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.

A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.

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

Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

I took the red dress down and put it against myself. 'Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?' I said.