You talk of freedom — I've never had it! I've been lonely and miserable and in despair, and you want me to consent to all that all over again!

I have no close friends, that is, no friends.

. . . enjoying literature as those alone enjoy it who have little else to enjoy.

You see, nobody cares about me except you. You don't know what that's like. You've always had people who cared. You've always had people. I've never had anybody. No wonder I feel frustrated.

I've felt as if I didn't exist, as if I were invisible, miles away from the world, miles away. You can't imagine how much alone I've been all my life.

I had the illusion of conversing with a fellow being without a barrier, without a steel door, without a black hood over my head . . . I have never, I think, impressed upon you how almost impossible I find it to communicate with anybody.

I'm as lonely as a lunatic.

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

He can do anything he likes and I'm so lonely, oh so lonely— And I put up with it because there was nothing else to do—