I have been afraid all my life that I am going to die. All my life it has been stuffed in my imagination

I kind of like the position of being the fair-haired savior of my mother

The mania started with insomnia and not eating and being driven, driven to find an apartment, driven to see everybody, driven to do New York, driven to never shut up.

Sometimes it is the simplest, seemingly most inane, most practical stuff that matters the most to someone.

I know that without treatment I would not have never been able to harness my creativity in such a successful way.

I'm not sure I want all my neuroses cleared up

I have two books that were published quite some time ago. I start to read about three sentences. I have to close it. I am so self-conscious. Who did I think I was?