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

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

Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.

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

Whatever happens I have had these blissful, perfect moments and they are worth living for.

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.

I must say, I hate money. But it's the lack of it I hate most.