Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

There is no life higher than the grasstops

I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

I’d discovered, after a lot of extreme apprehension about what spoons to use, that if you do something incorrect at table with a certain arrogance, as if you knew perfectly well you were doing it properly, you can get away with it and nobody will think you are bad-mannered or poorly brought up. They will think you are original and very witty.