I looked on my stomach and saw Frieda Rebecca, white as flour with the cream that covers new babies, funny little dark squiggles of hair plastered over her head, with big, dark-blue eyes.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.

It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative – whichever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.

If I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward, I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be. Yet I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, and am continually using myself as a specimen.

Mother believed that I should have an enormous amount of sleep, and so I was never really tired when I went to bed. This was the best time of day, when I could lie in the vague twilight, drifting off to sleep, making up dreams inside my head the way they should go.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, “This is what it is to be happy.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;I lift my lids and all is born again.(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.