[Henry Miller] was such a scribomaniac that even when he lived in the same house as Lawrence Durrell they often exchanged letters. For most of his life, Henry wrote literally dozens of letters a day to people he could have easily engaged in conversation - and did. The writing process, in short, was essential. As it is to all real writers, writing was life and breath to him. He put out words as a tree puts out leaves.

Why do analysts always answer a question with a question?

Is perception equivalent to existence?

All my forebears worked for a living. My grandfather painted portraits. My mother too. My aunt painted seascapes.

Underneath it all, you longed to be annihilated by love.

Court, in our society, is often the last resort of stubbornness.

Gossip is the opiate of the oppressed.