I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.

A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.

Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

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