God knows there certainly ought to be a window around here somewhere, for all of us.
It's a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.
Every man has a right to keep his own sentiments if he pleases.
Anybody's marriage might benefit from an occasional embargo on talk.
The hell with "love" anyway, and with every other phony, time-wasting, half-assed emotion in the world.
Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.