A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

I love the people,' I said. 'I have room in me for love, and for ever so many little lives.

So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.

The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.

It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

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.