Given the conditions under which you're a young person in this society, many things would be at least as important to you as your sexuality.

The involuntary character of psychiatric treatment is at odds with the spirit and ethics of medicine itself.

Aren't women prudes if they don't and prostitutes if they do?

You may well ask how I expect to assert my privacy by resorting to the outrageous publicity of being one's actual self on paper. There's a possibility of it working if one chooses the terms, to wit: outshouting image-gimmick America through a quietly desperate search for self.

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. Nothing. No small talk, no anecdotes. Nothing can be risked on the board of talk. Because the inner voice is so urgent in its own discourse: How shall I live? How shall I manage the future? Why should I go on?

What is the natural reaction when told you have a hopeless mental illness? That diagnosis does you in; that, and the humiliation of being there. I mean, the indignity you're subjected to. My God.

They weren't crazy. They were tired of being locked up. Even I could see that.