What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.
Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
Is there no way out of the mind?
I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.
Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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