“Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.”

“But in the end I understood this language. I understood it, I understand it, all wrong perhaps. That is not what matters. It told me to write the report. Does this mean I am freer now than I was? I do not know. I shall learn. Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.”

“And I think that in myself (and perhaps evident in what I write) fear of loss and the corresponding instinct to protect myself against loss are potent forces.”

“Feeling like what, Cassandra Mortmain? Flat? Depressed? Empty? If so, why, pray?I thought if I made myself write I should find out what is wrong with me, but I haven't, so far. Unless — could I possibly be jealous of Rose?I will pause and search my innermost soul . . .I have searched it for a solid five minutes. And I swear I am not jealous of Rose; [..]”

“I just write what I wanted to write. I write what amuses me. It's totally for myself”

“I write to find out what I think.”