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When I read a book I study it carefully to find whether the author knows things, and whether I could, with the same subject, write a better one myself.
The latter question I usually decide in the affirmative.

Dear—do you see?—you are the only one in the world.

So I found to-day in a moving-picture theater. A Carmen, the real Carmen of Prosper Mérimée glowed, vibrated, lived and died with passion on a white screen.

And I say, ‘Without doubt here are my words.’ But I use discretion. I know that tier of words to be of the nature of bombs, of strychnine, of a dynamic force resistible against all human and wordly substance.

An ancient witch-light

God has made many things less plausible than me.

I could be an anarchist. I condemn anarchists but not as I condemn Me.

my appetite for what I do eat is most excellent

Certainly he did not love me, for he was quite incapable of loving any one but himself.

My unhappy soul has delved in shadows far, far beyond and below.

My conversation—when I choose—makes people turn around in their chairs and stare and give me all of their attention. They admire me, though their admiration is mixed decidedly with other feelings.

My absorbed self that writes a letter to an intimate acquaintance is not like this book.

There were pictures in the red sunset sky to-day. I looked at them and was racked with passions of desire.

“It is good,” I think to myself, “oh, it is good to be alive!”

when I strain and reach vainly at a thing beyond me

Can I be possessed of a peculiar rare genius, and yet drag out my life in obscurity in this uncouth, warped, Montana town?

When my Happiness comes, shall I be able to have it? Shall I ever have anything?

You can see by my picture that my waist curves gracefully out. Only it is not all flesh—some of it is handkerchief.
It amuses me to do this.
It is one of my petty vanities.