I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

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.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.

Is anyone anywhere happy?