How sick one gets of being "good," how much I should respect myself if I could burst out and make everyone wretched for twenty-four hours; embody selfishness.

Though I have no productive worth, I have a certain value as an indestructible quantity.

The gain isn't counted to the recluse and inactive that, having nothing to measure themselves by and never being tested by failure, they simmer and soak perpetually in conscious complacency.

Physical pain however great ends in itself and falls away like dry husks from the mind, whilst moral discords and nervous horrors sear the soul.

I wonder whether if I had an education I should have been more or less a fool that I am.

Ah! Those strange people who have the courage to be unhappy! Are they unhappy, by the way?

The difficulty about all this dying, is that you can't tell a fellow anything about it, so where does the fun come in?