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.

Better to write twaddle, anything, than nothing at all.

There are in life as many aspects as attitudes towards it, and aspects change with attitudes.

What is it with me? Am I absolutely nobody, but merely inordinately vain? I do not know…. But I am most fearfully unhappy. That is all. I am so unhappy that I wish I was dead—yet I should be mad to die when I have not yet lived at all.

What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise

Regret is an appalling waste of energy, and no one who intends to be a writer can afford to indulge in it.

we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves.