What can be heavier than wealth than freedom?

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.

I never forgive attacks on my work.

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

Being always overavid, I demand from those I love a love equal to mine, which, being balanced people, they cannot supply.

A comforting acquaintance, hope, a contagious thing like spring, inebriating like lager.

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