Life Wasn't About Becoming, Was It? It

I Think About Death A Lot, I Really Do, Because I Can't Believe I Won't Exist. It's The Ego Isn't It? I Feel That I Should Retreat Into A Better Form Of Zen Buddhism Than This Kind Of Ego-dominated Thing. But I Don't Know, I Mean, I Want To Come Back As A Tree But I Suspect That It's Just Not Going To Happen, Is It?

It's Been Said That The Men In My Books Have Been Absent, Or Weak, Or Creepy.

(although Anyone With Half A Brain Must Surely Be Mired In Existential Gloom All The Time)

Julia's Vocabulary Was "chock-full" Of Strangely Archaic Words - "spiffing," "crumbs," "jeepers" - That Seemed To Have Originated In Some Prewar Girls' Annual Rather Than In Julia's Own Life. For Jackson, Words Were Functional, They Helped You Get To Places And Explain Things. For Julia, They Were Freighted With Inexplicable Emotion.

I Feel As If I’m Waiting For Something Dreadful To Happen, And Then I Realize It Already Has.