“...at last I understood that writing was this: an impulse to share with other people a feeling or truth that I myself had.”

“At least I understood that writing was this: an impulse to share with other people a feeling or truth that I myself had. Not to preach to them, but to give it to them if they cared to hear it.”

“We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary.'What is that, grandmother?'To understand other people.'Yes, grandmother. I must be fair - for if I'm not fair to other people, I'm not worth being understood myself. I see.”

“I had schooled myself since the war-days never to speak of my enthusiasms; when other people did not share them, which was usual, I was hurt and my pleasure diminished; why was I always excited about things other people did not care about? But I could not hold in.”

“My mother had always taught me to write about my feelings instead of sharing really personal things with others, so I spent many evenings writing in my diary, eating everything in the kitchen and waiting for Mr. Wrong to call.”

“I began to see myself as someone who can help others understand diversity rather than feeling like a social outcast. Ellen taught me to not care about other people's opinions. She taught me to be truthful. She taught me to be free. I began to live my life in love and complete acceptance. For the first time I had truly accepted myself.”