The odd thing in this world is that an eager-beaver type, with no original ideas, who mimes those in authority above him right to the last twist of necktie and scrape of chin, always gets noticed. Gets selected. Rises.

He started keeping a journal - had been, in fact, secretly doing so for some time: the furtive act of a deranged person.

If the last to know he’s an addict is the addict, then maybe the last to know when a man means what he says is the man himself, he reflected.

My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.

I will never fully understand; that is the nature of such creatures. Or is this Inner Truth now, this that is happening to me? I will wait. I will see. Which it is. Perhaps it is both.

The most dangerous kind of person... is one who is afraid of his own shadow.

Dilemma of civilized man; body mobilized, but danger obscure.