Occasionally I was so much better that I could go out; but the streets used to put me in such a rage that I would lock myself up for days rather than go out, even if I were well enough to do so! I could not bear to see all those preoccupied, anxious-looking creatures continuously surging along the streets past me! Why are they always anxious? What is the meaning of their eternal care and worry? It is their wickedness, their perpetual detestable malice-that's what it is-they are all full of malice, malice!

Just take a look around you: Blood is flowing in rivers and in such a jolly way you’d think it was champagne.

No, evidently habit means a lot. The devil knows what habit can do to a person.

But how could you live and have no story to tell?

To live without Hope is to Cease to live.

Killing myself was a matter of such indifference to me that I felt like waiting for a moment when it would make some difference.

I used to imagine adventures for myself, I invented a life, so that I could at least exist somehow.