Tonight, once more, life sinks its teeth into my heart.

A life is such a strange object, at one moment translucent, at another utterly opaque, an object I make with my own hands, an object imposed on me, an object for which the world provides the raw material and then steals it from me again, pulverized by events, scattered, broken, scored yet retaining its unity; how heavy it is and how inconsistent: this contradiction breeds many misunderstandings.

To give space when what one most yearns for is closeness, that is both the great test and great tragedy of love.

I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity.

I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself

What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.

If you are truly on the left, if you reject ideas of power and hierarchy, what you want is equality. Otherwise, it won't work at all.