Why do I always have to be helping people . . . and getting no help myself?

Let me sleep at last. I've had misery enough in my life. You said there was nowhere to go to. There is death to go to. I've had misery enough in my life.

I just want to serve and help people and be good to everybody, only it always goes wrong somehow—I think about suicide all the time, every bloody day I want to die and stop this torture, but I go crawling on . . . I'm so Christ-awful bloody lonely I could scream with it for hours on end.

You don't know what it is to want a man, any man. I wish I could discover some respectable male prostitutes, like civil servants or university dons who do it in their spare time for a bit of pocket money, there must be such people.

Desperate for help, living his life now as a hideous dream, he had told nobody.

Sometimes I think he will become quite desperate — with the pain of simply being himself — he might do anything.

But she felt that she had to see him or she would die.

I need love, I've never felt more in need of it than now. I feel so terribly terribly unhappy.