It is not so much the content of what one says as the way in which one says it. However important the thing you say, what's the good of it if not heard or, being heard, not felt?

As the blackness of the night recedes so does the nadir of yesterday. The child I am forgets so quickly.

There's no such thing beneath the heavens as conditions favorable to art. Art must crash through or perish.

When I teach people, I marry them.

I never forgive attacks on my work.

What a desire! ... to live in peace with that word: Myself.

How much of my true self I camouflage and choke in order to commend myself to him, denying the fullness of me. How often have I paraded sweetness and interest when I felt otherwise; pretended to take careful leave of him on many an occasion when I would rather have walked right out. How I've toned myself down, diluted myself to maintain his approval.