I Am Empty Of Everything. I Am

If I Was Bound For Hell, Let It Be Hell. No More False Heaven. No More Damned Magic.

For The First Time She Had Dimly Realized That Only The Hopeless Are Starkly Sincere And That Only The Unhappy Can Either Give Or Take Sympathy--even Some Of The Bitter And Dangerous Voluptuousness Of Misery.

I Often Want To Cry. That Is The Only Advantage Women Have Over Men — At Least They Can Cry.

The Last Time You Were Happy About Nothing; The First Time You Were Afraid About Nothing. Which Came First?

I Must Write. If I Stop Writing My Life Will Have Been An Abject Failure. It Is That Already To Other People. But It Could Be An Abject Failure To Myself. I Will Not Have Earned Death.