You see I don't even know myself and am really trying to argue it out with myself - anyway it isn't very important. (1934) - Wide Sargasso Sea

So it was all over, the advance and retreat, the doubts and hesitations. Everything finished, for better or for worse. (first lines)

She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion. ("The Insect World")

'Mein Lieb, Mon Cher, My Dear, Amigo,' the letter began (beginning of the story "Tigers Are Better-looking")