Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.
I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
The tulips are too red...they hurt me.
My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself. Try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way–and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity.
I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.