Sometimes it feels like we're all living in a Prozac nation. The United States of Depression.

You don't even have to hate to have a perfectly miserable time.

There are some remarks that are so stupid that to be even vaguely aware of them is the intellectual equivalent of living next door to Chernobyl.

They can give you all the pills on earth and do whatever - and you're still yourself.

The most likely person to kill you is your wife, but that probably won't happen. What probably will happen is a million little betrayals of varying degrees of pain, brought on by people you love, the only ones who really can hurt you.

Years of depression have robbed me of that—well, that give, that elasticity that everyone else calls perspective.

I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I'll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if it's worth it.