It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)

Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!

Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

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

The reason I haven't been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven't had one decent coherent thought to put down.