It occurs to me that for a long time she has been doing her own version of resisting.

I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.

Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.

I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.

Huamns, uregulated, are cruel and capricious; violet and selfish; miserable and quarrelsome. It is only after their instincts and basic emotions have been controlled that they can be happy, generous, and good.

So many things become beautiful when you really look.

There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.