I think it's easy to mistake understanding for empathy - we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It's hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you.

… It is not healing to see your childhood home, but it helps you measure whether you are broken, and how and why, assuming you want to know.

In her way, she was a hard one. Faith in any sort of natural justice was nothing but a night light; she knew of that. Whatever she did, she would end the same way with everyone does: flat on her back with a tube in her nose, wondering, "Is this all?

It's hard to have anything isn't it? Rare to get it, hard to keep it. This is a damn slippery planet.

Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.

Let me tell you about my day. I get up at 8 o'clock in the morning. At 8:30 am, I leave the house and I arrive at my office at 8:37. I stay in the office until 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I get in my Porsche and I'm home at 2:03 because the one-way streets make it faster for me to drive. And between 8:36 am and 2 pm, I'm doing one of three things: I'm writing. I'm staring out the window. Or I'm writhing on the floor.

I expect most psychiatrists have a patient or two they'd like to refer to me.