I feel that by writing I am doing what is far more necessary than anything else.

When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.

Up here my eyes are green leaves, unseeing.

There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.

The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I.

I worship you, but I loathe marriage. I hate its smugness, its safety, its compromise and the thought of you interfering with my work, hindering me; what would you answer?

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.