If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

I am what I feel and think and do.

I’d discovered, after a lot of extreme apprehension about what spoons to use, that if you do something incorrect at table with a certain arrogance, as if you knew perfectly well you were doing it properly, you can get away with it and nobody will think you are bad-mannered or poorly brought up. They will think you are original and very witty.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.