It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.

You are never truly together with one you love until the person in question is dead and actually inside you.

The study of sickness is the most poetic of the sciences.

Everyone, he went on, speaks a language he does not understand, but which now and then is understood by others. That is enough to permit one to exist and at least to be misunderstood.

You've always lived a life of pretense, not a real life-- a simulated existence, not a genuine existence. Everything about you, everything you are, has always been pretense, never genuine, never real.

...He was just scraps of words and dislocated phrases.

Very often we write down a sentence too early, then another too late; what we have to do is write it down at the proper time, otherwise it's lost.