I am a genius. Then it amused me to keep saying so, but now it does not. I expected to be happy sometime. Now I know I shall never be.
I began to be a woman at twelve, or more properly, a genius.
Genius, apart from natural sensitiveness, is prone equally to unreasoning joy and to bitterest morbidness.
A genius who does not know that he is a genius is no genius.
I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.