I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.

The smarter you are, the more you know, the less reason you have to trust or love or confide.

A family can be the bane of one's existence. A family can also be most of the meaning of one's existence. I don't know whether my family is bane or meaning, but they have surely gone away and left a large hole in my heart.

Through poverty, godhunger, the family debacle, I kept a sense of worth. I could limn and paint like no-one else in this human-wounded land: I was worth the while of living. Now my skill is dead. I should be.

I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.

It's the possibility that when you're dead you might still go on hurting that bothers me.

You want to know about anybody? See what books they read, and how they've been read.