At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

I sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

To learn and think; to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.

O love, how did you get here?

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.

I'm sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I'm still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.