I soon came to understand that drink, tobacco and prostitutes were all great means if dissipating (even for a few moments) my dread for human beings. I came even to feel that if I had to sell every last possession to obtain these means of escape, it would be well worth it.

The world, after all, was still a place of bottomless horror. It was by no means a place of childlike simplicity where everything could be settled by a simple then-and-there decision.

Labeled a delinquent. That's the only kind of label I want to be crucified under.

As for love . . . no, having once written that word I can write nothing more.

Now even if I die, no one will be so grieved as to do himself bodily harm.

It isn't that I dislike artists, but I can't stand anyone who puts on those ponderous airs of a man of character.

In my case such an expression as 'to be fallen for' or even 'to be loved' is not in the least appropriate; perhaps it describes the situation more accurately to say that I was 'looked after.