All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.

What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.

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 didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.