The only love from which a man never recuperates is the one he never had. The eternal and untarnished illusion.

People who praise illness as bringing out the best in people ought to have their heads examined. Pain forces you to think about yourself, directs your interest to your own body and what is happening to it. You don't reach out benevolently, filled with good will for others. You don't seem to care enough. Pain makes you a little person, not a big one, and not a nice one, except perhaps in the case of saints, and I've never known one.

Night thoughts aren't to be trusted.

The young never take anything seriously if it sounds simple.

cruelty is the only thing that strikes me as completely unforgivable. The unpardonable sin.

minutes weren't given you to save but to spend. This is yours - now. Stop and live it.

It's easy to respond to the hate cries, usually carefully wrapped up in a flag. Perhaps hate is the greatest simplifier of them all. It's the man with the throb in his voice, the man with the easy formula, the man who tries to shout to my emotions instead of speaking to my mind, the man who is sure he is right that I run from like hell.