Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.

I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.