Intoxicated with madness, I'm in love with my sadness

For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.