I have such a horror of telegrams that ask me how I am!! I always want to reply dead.

Letters are the real curse of my existence. I hate to write them: I have to. If I don't, there they are - the great guilty gates barring my way.

Perhaps it does not matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.

Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.

My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well.

Would you not like to try all sorts of lives - one is so very small - but that is the satisfaction of writing - one can impersonate so many people.

... I'd always rather be with people who loved me too little rather than with people who loved me too much.