The voices in my head, which I used to think were just passing through, seem to have taken up residence.

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

I wonder if any of them can tell from just looking at me that all I am is the sum total of my pain, a raw woundedness so extreme that it might be terminal. It might be terminal velocity, the speed of the sound of a girl falling down to a place from where she can't be retrieved. What if I am stuck down here for good?

The measure of mindfulness, the touchstone for sanity in this society, is our level of productivity, our attention to responsibility, our ability to plain and simple hold down a job.

Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a HANDLE WITH CARE sign stuck to my forehead.

I'd really like to write a book about Timothy McVeigh, but it would only work if he cooperated.

Embrace fanaticism. Harness joie de vivre by pursuing insane interests, consuming passions, and constant sources of gratification that do not depend on the approval of others