Before I Could Read, Almost A Baby,

Now At Last I Know Why I Was Brought Here And What I Have To Do.

There Are Always Two Deaths, The Real One And The One People Know About.

It Is Strange How Sad It Can Be - Sunlight In The Afternoon, Don't You Think?

Yes, I Am Sad, Sad As A Circus-lioness, Sad As An Eagle Without Wings, Sad As A Violin With Only One String And That One Broken, Sad As A Woman Who Is Growing Old. Sad, Sad, Sad.

I'm No Use To Anybody,' I Say. 'i'm A Cérébrale, Can't You See That?' Thinking How Funny A Book Would Be, Called 'just A Cérébrale Or You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming'. Only, Of Course, To Be Accepted As Authentic, To Carry Any Conviction, It Would Have To Be Written By A Man. What A Pity, What A Pity!