My stepfather, John O'Hara, was the goodest man there was. He was not a man of many words, but of carefully chosen ones. He was the one parent who didn't try to fix me. One night I sat on his lap in his chair by the wood stove, sobbing. He just held me quietly and then asked only, "What does it feel like?" It was the first time I was prompted to articulate it. I thought about it, then said, "I feel homesick." That still feels like the most accurate description - I felt homesick, but I was home.

I know how to write. So I am not totally at the mercy of filmmakers, but it's not a bad point.

I will always try to be happy. I don’t think people really understand the value of happiness until they know what it’s like to be in that very, very dark place. It’s not romantic. Not even a little.

Everybody blames the Jews for killing Christ, and the Jews try to pass it off on the Romans. I'm one of the few people who believes it was the blacks.

I remember the horror story that I told myself over and over again. I'm totally alone in my body. I'm totally alone in my head and nobody will ever see through my eyes. I'm just completely alone.

That's not to say that I don't find anything offensive.

I can't cater to everyone's needs and what they're going to be offended by; that's one freedom I have.