The problem with introspection is that it has no end.

Why does a man cry? he wondered. Not like a woman; not for that. Not for sentiment. A man cries over the loss of something, something alive. A man can cry over a sick animal that he knows won't make it. The death of a child: a man can cry for that. But not because things are sad. A man, he thought, cries not for the future or the past but for the present.

Little kids are that way; they feel if their parents aren't watching what they do then what they do isn't real.

Madness has its own dynamism. It just goes on.

A human being without the proper empathy or feeling is the same as an android built so as to lack it, either by design or mistake. We mean, basically, someone who does not care about the fate which his fellow living creatures fall victim to; he stands detached, a spectator, acting out by his indifference John Donne's theorem that "No man is an island," but giving that theorem a twist: that which is a mental and a moral island is not a man.

That is the artist's job: take mineral rock from dark silent earth, transform it into shining light-reflecting form from sky.

Emigrate or Degenerate.