I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.

There is more than one good way to drown.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.