Fathers never have exactly the daughters they want because they invent a notion a them that the daughters have to conform to.
When I was a child, when I was an adolescent, books saved me from despair: that convinced me that culture was the highest of values.
What is an adult? A child blown up by age.
What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.
Tragedies are all right for a while: you are concerned, you are curious, you feel good. And then it gets repetitive, it doesn’t advance, it grows dreadfully boring: it is so very boring, even for me.
Even if one is neither vain nor self-obsessed, it is so extraordinary to be oneself – exactly oneself and no one else – and so unique, that it seems natural that one should also be unique for someone else.
