Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

Tomorrow is another day toward death.

I am not a historian, but I find myself being more and more fascinated by history and now I find myself reading more and more about history. I am very interested in Napoleon, at the present: I'm very interested in battles, in wars, in Gallipoli, the First World War and so on, and I think that as I age I am becoming more and more historical. I certainly wasn't at all in my early twenties.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?