And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, narrowed, warped, by my environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs, of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of finding them will be marred by the fact that I have reached the ultimate in shallow, two-dimensional living — a set of values.

The reason I haven't been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven't had one decent coherent thought to put down.

I wondered what I thought I was burying.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It's like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction--every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.