Yet, she said to herself, form the dawn of time odes have been sung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; and if you asked nine people out of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this--love; while the women, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling, This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile, and inhumane than this; yet it is also beautiful and necessary.

I got out this diary, & read as one always does read one's own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity.

Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.

Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

Some collaboration has to take place in the mind between the woman and the man before the art of creation can be accomplished. Some marriage of opposites has to be consummated. The whole of the mind must lie wide open if we are to get the sense that the

The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.

If the best of one's feelings means nothing to the person most concerned in those feelings, what reality is left us?