I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

Is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color—it’s a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown . . . I’ve tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar.

To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.

I think I made you up inside my head.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.

I am what I feel and think and do.