To tell the truth I never had it so good. But I lacked the strength of character to bear such joy.

She's very pretty but she's honey from the icebox, if you know what I mean. Cold sweets won't spread.

Myself is thus and so, and will continue thus and so. And why fight it? My balance comes from instability.

I blame myself for not often enough seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. Somewhere in his journals, Dostoyevky remarks that a writer can begin anywhere, at the most commonplace thing, scratch around in it long enough, pry and dig away long enough, and lo!, soon he will hit upon the marvelous.

I feel that art has something to do with the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos.

Do we always, always to the point of misery, do a thing?

Psychoanalysis pretends to investigate the Unconscious. The Unconscious by definition is what you are not conscious of. But the Analysts already know what's in it - they should, because they put it all in beforehand.