I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.

There was a beautiful time.

I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor or pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.