I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.

If only I can find him... the man who will be intelligent, yet physically magnetic and personable. If I can offer that combination, why shouldn't I expect it in a man?

She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

I am myself. That is not enough.

When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.