But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

I dream too much, work too little.