She doesn’t think she’s worthy to live. But she doesn’t realize, she is life.

Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll towards a middle-class life-style will never write anything but crap.

I became as hard as whipcord, but with a brain like cottonwool.

Every day you amass knowledge in a frantic race against death that death must win. You want to find out everything in the time you have; yet in the end you wonder why you bothered, it'll all be lost. I keep trying to explain this to anyone who will listen.

She doesn’t think she’s worthy to live. But she doesn’t realize, she is life.