Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see how alike they are.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.