I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I'd stop and look so hard I never forgot it.

I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.

I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.