It didn’t and doesn’t turn out well. There is no happy ending to the story of sorrow if you are born with a predilection for despair. The world is, after all, a coarse and brutal and cruel place. It’s only a matter of how long you can live with it.

It was just very interesting to me that certain types of women inspire people's imagination, and all of them were very difficult women.

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.

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me.

My life's actually been quite dull; it's not all that glamorous.

...if you feel everything intensely, ultimately you feel nothing at all.

And she keeps saying, how can you do this to me? And i want to scream, what do you mean, how can I do this to you? Aren't we confusing our pronouns here? The question, really, is How could I do this to myself?