Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I've read; what I haven't read.

Oh, I am in love with life!

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.

Fear no more, says the heart.

A very elementary exercise in psychology, not to be dignified by the name of psycho-analysis, showed me, on looking at my notebook, that the sketch of the angry professor had been made in anger. Anger had snatched my pencil while I dreamt. But what was anger doing there? Interest, confusion, amusement, boredom--all these emotions I could trace and name as they succeeded each other throughout the morning. Had anger, the black snake, been lurking among them? Yes, said the sketch, anger had.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.