I was born to be alone, and I always shall be but now I want to be.
I am lithe, but fragile from constant involuntary self-analysis.
I've never made plans for more than a day ahead.
It is with pain that I read of the dire effects of my book upon the minds of young girls.
I am a genius. Then it amused me to keep saying so, but now it does not. I expected to be happy sometime. Now I know I shall never be.
Just why I sent it to the publishers would be hard to say, but when I had finished it I felt that it was literature, because it is real and because it was well written. And I know that the world wants such things.