I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.

Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.

I spent an hour looking at pots and carpets in the museums the other day, until the desire to describe them became like the desire for the lusts of the flesh.