I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

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.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.