And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

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

Wear your heart on your skin in this life.

I didn't know shorthand either. This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand would be something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter. The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.