I am not certain of the hereafter. Frankly, I'm not all that certain of the here.
I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.
I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.
My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't, streets that are friendly, streets that aren't, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be, looking-glasses I look nice in, looking-glasses I don't, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won't, and so on.
All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.
You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
The only reason I would take up jogging is so that I could hear heavy breathing again.
Hitler spoke in a quiet, soft voice.
I think Trump's attention span is super low. I don't think he has the expertise to actually run a foreign policy.
One of the perks of being a psychologist is access to tools that allow you to carry out the injunction to know thyself.