God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.