I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.