Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.

I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.

I am what I feel and think and do.

I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.

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