Writing does not cause misery, it is born of misery.
We are, I know not how, double in ourselves, so that what we believe, we disbelieve, and cannot rid ourselves of what we condemn.
Open talk opens the way to further talk, as wine does or love.
Every movement reveals us.
We are entirely made up of bits and pieces, woven together so diversely and so shapelessly that each one of them pulls its own way at every moment.
A good marriage would be between a blind wife and a deaf husband.