I often want to cry. That is the only advantage women have over men - at least they can cry.

I will write my name in fire red.

What I see is nothing – I want what it hides – that is not nothing.

Nothing left but hopelessness.′ Say die and I will die. Say die and watch me die.

Cold – cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.

There was a vase of flame-coloured tulips in the hall – surely the most graceful of flowers. Some thrust their heads forward like snakes, and some were very erect, stiff, virginal, rather prim. Some were dying, with curved grace in their death.

I had started out in life trusting everyone and now I trusted no one. So I had a few acquaintances and no close friends. It was perhaps in reaction against the inevitable loneliness of my life that I’d find myself doing bold, risky, even outrageous things without hesitation or surprise. I was usually disappointed in these adventures and they didn’t have much effect on me, good or bad, but I never quite lost the hope of something better or different.

Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but more important it finds homes for us everywhere.

I have a lot of writing to do and not as much time as you’d think. I do it at night now and look a bit haggard afterwards.

It is strange how sad it can be – sunlight in the afternoon, don’t you think?