My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.

It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.

If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: "I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.