The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.