We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!

Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.

Behind everything we feel, there is always a sense of fear.

Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.

All of us are mad. If it weren't for the fact that every one of us is slightly abnormal, there wouldn't be any point in giving each person a separate name.

Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.

It so difficult to know what the people we love really need.