When it came to my turn, I spoke the truth by chance when I said that, however much I wanted to cry, I only permitted myself the luxury about once in two years. I think my complexion is a conclusive proof that my words were sincere.
There are deserts which never know the refreshment of dew or rain. My life has been such a desert.
I, who like to receive confidences, have a morbid fear of giving them. Perhaps it is because I was so much alone, so self-centred, in my childhood.
The more I reflect upon life, the more clearly I see that I have not laid out my talents to the best advantage. I have no sweet memories of infidelity; I have lived irreproachably—and now I am very tired.
I sit here and write for myself alone. I know that no one else will ever read my words; and yet I am not quite sincere, even with myself.
Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; now it is too late.
Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, poor fool, did not rise to welcome it.
I envy every country wench or servant girl who goes off with a lover. But I sit here waiting for old age.
Astrid Bagge.... As I write her name, I feel as though she were standing weeping behind my back; I feel her tears dropping on my neck. I cannot weep—but how I long for tears!
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