Hatred strikes me as one of the few signs of life remaining in the world. This is another thing about the world which is upsidedown: all the friendly and likable people seem dead to me; only the haters seem alive.

As for hobbies, people with stimulating hobbies suffer from the most noxious of despairs since they are tranquilized in their despair.

A novel is what you call something that won't sell if you call it poems or short stories.

It is possible, however, that the artist is both thin-skinned and prophetic and, like the canary lowered into the mine shaft to test the air, has caught a whiff of something lethal.

I had discovered that a person does not have to be this or be that or be anything, not even oneself. One is free.

Where there is chance of gain, there is also chance of loss. Whenever one courts great happiness, one also risks malaise.

But there is much to be said for giving up ... grand ambitions and living the most ordinary life imaginable.