We read the weird tales in newspapers to crowd out the even weirder stuff inside us.

People who hold important positions in society are commonly labelled "somebodies," and their inverse "nobodies"-both of which are, of course, nonsensical descriptors, for we are all, by necessity, individuals with distinct identities and comparable claims on existence. Such words are nevertheless an apt vehicle for conveying the disparate treatment accorded to different groups. Those without status are all but invisible: they are treated brusquely by others, their complexities trampled upon and their singularities ignored.

To be loved by someone is to realize how much they share the same needs that lie at the heart of our own attraction to them. Albert Camus suggested that we fall in love with people because, from the outside, they look so whole, physically whole and emotionally 'together' - when subjectively we feel dispersed and confused. We would not love if there were no lack within us, but we are offended by the discovery of a similar lack in the other. Expecting to find the answer, we find only the duplicate of our own problem.

The good parent: someone who doesn't mind, for a time, being hated by their children.

Despite its maddeningly vague, inarticulate form, anxiety is almost always trying to tell you something useful and apposite.

We should keep a careful diary of our moments of envy: they are our covert guides to what we should try to do next.

We are all more intelligent than we are capable, and awareness of the insanity of love has never saved anyone from the disease.