The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.

I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.

Alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know

I’m not clear enough in the head to feel anything but varieties of dull anger and arrows of sadness.