It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.

You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the colour goes out of my life.

Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.

...the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

Like" and "like" and "like"--but what is the thing that lies beneath the semblance of the thing?

She had read a wonderful play about a man who scratched on the wall of his cell and she had felt that was true of life — one scratched on the wall.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one's words.