I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
I didn't know what I was doing in New York.
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.
So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.
If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.
I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?
My garden is the most beautiful thing in the world.
because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.
The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
I am made, crudely, for success.
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