You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

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

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.