Out Of Life's Storm I Carried Only

My Whole Life Has Been Merely A Succession Of Miserable And Unsuccessful Denials Of Feelings Or Reason.

The History Of A Man's Soul, Even The Pettiest Soul, Is Hardly Less Interesting And Useful Than The History Of A Whole People; Especially When The Former Is The Result Of The Observations Of A Mature Mind Upon Itself, And Has Been Written Without Any Egotistical Desire Of Arousing Sympathy Or Astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions Has Precisely This Defect – He Read It To His Friends.

My Love Had Grown One With My Soul; It Became Darker, But Did Not Go Out

I Was Modest--they Accused Me Of Being Crafty: I Became Secretive. I Felt Deeply Good And Evil--nobody Caressed Me, Everybody Offended Me: I Became Rancorous. I Was Gloomy--other Children Were Merry And Talkative. I Felt Myself Superior To Them--but Was Considered Inferior: I Became Envious. I Was Ready To Love The Whole World--none Understood Me: And I Learned To Hate.

I Was Ready To Love The Whole World, But No One Understood Me, And I Learned To Hate.