Let me but make a beginning, let me but strike the world in a vulnerable spot, and I can take it by storm.

I want fame more than I can tell. But more than I want fame I want happiness.

I am a genius. Then it amused me to keep saying so, but now it does not. I expected to be happy sometime. Now I know I shall never be.

I love devils.

The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn.

You may think me crude, and probably I am crude, but I am not so crude as I was, for I am clever enough to see that the girl of nineteen who thought herself a genius was only an unusual girl writing her heart out.