But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.

Life's bare as a bone.