I Delight In What I Fear.

She Had Taken To Wondering Lately, During These Swift-counted Years, What Had Been Done With All Those Wasted Summer Days; How Could She Have Spent Them So Wantonly? I Am Foolish, She Told Herself Early Every Summer, I Am Very Foolish; I Am Grown Up Now And Know The Values Of Things. Nothing Is Ever Really Wasted, She Believed Sensibly, Even One's Childhood, And Then Each Year, One Summer Morning, The Warm Wind Would Come Down The City Street Where She Walked And She Would Be Touched With The Little Cold Thought: I Have Let More Time Go By.

In All The World There Is Not Someone Who Does Not Believe Something.

Hill House, She Thought, You're As Hard To Get Into As Heaven.

I Very Much Dislike Writing About Myself Or My Work, And When Pressed For Autobiographical Material Can Only Give A Bare Chronological Outline Which Contains No Pertinent Facts.

I Have Always Loved To Use Fear, To Take It And Comprehend It And Make It Work And Consolidate A Situation Where I Was Afraid And Take It Whole And Work From There.