Autobiography. Apparently one should not name the names of those one has been to bed with, or give explicit figures on the amount of money one has earned, those being the two data most eagerly sought by readers; all the rest is legitimate to reveal.

When you know that something is dying inside you, you learn not to put much trust in the random vitalities of the fleeting moment.

Unacceptable, maybe. But not unthinkable. Nothing's unthinkable once somebody's thought it.

I find the world and all it contains extremely fascinating. Is this sinful?

Stale is stale and borrowed is borrowed, no matter how original your models may have been.

Thus does the unyielding, inescapable future ineluctably devour the present.

To devote oneself to vigilance when the enemy is an imaginary one is idle, and to congratulate oneself for looking long and well for a foe that is not coming is foolish and sinful. My life has been a waste.