I was thinking of my patients, and how the worst moment for them was when they discovered they were masters of their own fate. It was not a matter of bad or good luck. When they could no longer blame fate, they were in despair.

Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.

Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.

What is love but acceptance of the other, whatever he is.

My diary seems to keep me whole.

Analysis does not take into account the creative products of neurotic desires.

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.