As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
Once she knows how to read there's only one thing you can teach her to believe in and that is herself.
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees ... one's happiness, one's reality?
A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.
I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.