Wind moving through grass so that the grass quivers. This moves me with an emotion I don't even understand.

There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story.

Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.

We can do whatever we wish to do provided our wish is strong enough. But the tremendous effort needed- one doesn't always want to make it-does one? ... But what else can be done? What's the alternative? What do you want most to do? That's what I have to keep asking myself, in the face of difficulties.

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

What do you want most to do? That's what I have to keep asking myself, in the face of difficulties.

That's all life is - something childish and very natural. Isn't it?