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

I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can't understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I'm fascinated by this mastery of the practical.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

I think I made you up inside my head.

I am what I feel and think and do.

A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.