Everything becomes so problematic because of basic faults: from a discontent with myself.

How can one know anything at all about people?

We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.

We live trapped, between the churned-up and examined past and a future that waits for our work.

In our dreams we can have our eggs cooked exactly how we want them, but we can't eat them.

It is only when parental feelings are ineffective or too ambivalent or when the mother's emotions are temporarily engaged elsewhere that children feel lost.

If I have a stupid day, everything looks wrong to me.