I am poor - obscure - just eighteen years of age - with a rapacious appetite for everything and principles as light as my purse.

I think I hate snow, downright hate it. There is something stupefying in it, a kind of 'You must be worse before you're better,' and down it spins.

Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change.

Once we have learned to read, meaning of words can somehow register without consciousness.

I want, by understanding myself, to understand others. I want to be all that I am capable of becoming.... This all sounds very strenuous and serious. But now that I have wrestled with it, it's no longer so. I feel happy- deep down. All is well.

I don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees.

I am treating you as my friend, asking you to share my present minuses in the hope that I can ask you to share my future plusses.