I am too pure for you or anyone.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?