It was a spring day, the sort that gives people hope: all soft winds and delicate smells of warm earth. Suicide weather.

For many of us, the hospital was as much a refuge as it was a prison. Though we were cut off from the world and all the trouble we enjoyed stirring up out there, we were also cut off from the demands and expectations that had driven us crazy. What could be expected of us now that we were stowed away in a loony bin?

It's one of the reasons I became a writer, to be able to smoke in peace.

Tell me that you don’t take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down.

My family had a lot of characteristics - achievements, ambitions, talents, expectations - that all seemed to be recessive in me.

You have to have a somewhat cold heart to be a writer.

The debate was wearing me out. Once you've posed that question, it won't go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won't. Anything I thought or did was immediately drawn into the debate. Made a stupid remark--why not kill myself? Missed the bus--better put an end to it all. Even the good got in there. I liked that movie--maybe I shouldn't kill myself.