I can shake off everything if I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.
Anne Frank, p. 32
Old and young, we are all on our last cruise.
R. L. Stevenson, p. 38
How long before my death is the necessary question.
John Webster, p. 65
We become what we behold.
William Blake, p. 90
I see with an eye that feels and feel with an eye that sees.
J. W. Von Goethe, p. 120
Begin at the beginning, the king said gravely, and go on till you come to the end.
Lewis Carroll, p. 134
Growing up is, after all, only the understanding that one's unique and incredible experience is what everyone has.
Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook (I forgot to note the page number.)
The gift of pleasure is the first mystery.
John Berger (I forgot to note the page number.)
One does not always sing out of happiness.
Pierre Bonnardi (I forgot to note the page number.)
The great object of life is sensation--to feel that we exist.
Lord Byron (I forgot to note the page number.)
"What a need we humans have for confession. To a priest, to a friend, to a psychoanalyst, to a relative, to an enemy, even to a torturer when there is no one else, it doesn't matter so long as we speak out what moves within us. Even the most secretive of us do it, if no more than writing in a private diary. And I have often thought as I read stories and novels and poems, especially poems, that they are no more than the author's confessions transformed by their art into someting that confesses for us all. Indeed, looking back on my lifelong passion for reading, the one activity that has a kept me going and given me the most and only lasting pleasure, I think this is the reason that explains why it means so much to me. The books, the authors who matter most to me speak to me and speak for me all those things about life I most need to hear as the confession of myself" (p. 275).
Chambers, A. (1999). Postcards from no man's land. London, England: The Bodley Head.