I’ve already said too much. I’ve already shared too much, and now I want all my secrets back. I hate getting too close to people. I regret having shared so much, for having cared so much, for allowing myself to feel so much.
A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; — not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.