There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.

You imagine the carefully pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.

After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.

I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armor at home.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.