It makes people nervous for one to step out of one's role.

Why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?

Bad books always lie. They lie most of all about the human condition.

For some time now the impression has been growing upon me that everyone is dead. It happens when I speak to people. In the middle of a sentence it will come over me: yes, beyond a doubt this is death. There is little to do but groan and make an excuse and slip away as quickly as one can.

I like to eat crawfish and drink beer. That's despair?

I couldn't stand it. I still can't stand it. I can't stand the way things are. I cannot tolerate this age.

Have you noticed that only in time of illness or disaster or death are people real?