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 flung my tongue round like a cat-o'-nine-tails so that my pleasant peaceful infant room became little less than a German concentration camp as I took out on the children what life should have got.

I am my own Universe, I my own Professor.

The truth is that I am enslaved... in one vast love affair with 70 children.

I never forgive attacks on my work.

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

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