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.

I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.

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

He had discovered that people who allow themselves to be blown about by the winds of emotion and impulse are always unhappy people.

Some must cry so that others may be able to laugh the more heartily. Sacrifices are necessary.

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.

You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.