What is so real as the cry of a child?

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

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.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.

I am what I feel and think and do.

I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.