All Of A Writer That Matters Is

I've Been So Ridiculous All My Life That A Little Bit More Or A Little Bit Less Hardly Matters Now.

Of Course She Had Some Pathetic Illusions About Herself Or She Would Not Be Able To Go On Living.

For The First Time She Had Dimly Realized That Only The Hopeless Are Starkly Sincere And That Only The Unhappy Can Either Give Or Take Sympathy--even Some Of The Bitter And Dangerous Voluptuousness Of Misery.

It Is Strange How Sad It Can Be - Sunlight In The Afternoon, Don't You Think?

Next Week, Or Next Month, Or Next Year I Will Kill Myself. But I Might As Well Last Out My Month's Rent, Which Has Been Paid Up.