Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

Why honey, don't you want to get dressed?" My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon." I'm writing a novel," I said. "I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.

Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.

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

The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.