It is difficult to write about any form of mental disease, especially your own, without sounding as if you were examining a bug under glass.

I suppose life is a little like that, isn't it, a message in a bottle pitched out to sea, to be carried by the winds and the tides, washing up on the beaches we could never imagine.

I was fine when it came to cheering up others, not so fine with myself.

A romantic, I think, picks the rose and is careless with the thorn.

I had known Cole Porter in Hollywood and New York, spent many a warm hour at his home, and met the talented and original people who were drawn to him.

In the months leading up to World War II, there was a tendency among many Americans to talk absently about the trouble in Europe. Nothing that happened an ocean away seemed very threatening.

I knew I could not cope with the future unless I was able to rediscover the past.