I'm a writer first and a woman after.

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 love this place; I love mountains and big skies and forests. And the weather is still supremely beautiful even though the lower peaks are powdered with fresh snow. But Heavens! What sun. It never has an ending. I am basking at this minute - half past four - too hot without a hat, & the sky is that transparent blue only to be seen in autumn - the forest trees steeped in light.

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

Regret is an appalling waste of time.

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

How idiotic civilization is! Why be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle?