By writing I was existing... My pen raced away so fast that often my wrist ached. I would throw the filled notebooks on the floor, I would eventually forget about them, they would disappear.... I wrote in order to write. I don't regret it; had I been read, I would have tried to please. I would have become a wonder again. Being clandestine I was true.
Jean-Paul Sartre (at age 9)