I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.

I cannot life for life itself: but for the words which stay the flux. My life, I feel, will not be lived until there are books and stories which relive it perpetually in time. I forget too easily how it was, and shrink to the horror of the here and now, with no past and no future. Writing breaks open the vaults of the dead and the skies behind which the prophesying angels hide. The mind makes and makes, spinning its web.