It was my misfortune-or salvation-to be at all times perfectly conscious of my misperceptions of reality.

What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?

When I was supposed to be awake, I was asleep. When I was supposed to sleep, I was silent. When a pleasure offered itself to me, I avoided it.

There is thought, and then there is thinking about thoughts, and they don't feel the same.

As far as I could see, life demanded skills I didn't have.

An observer can't tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.

A thought is a hard thing to control.