“Depression is a side effect of dying.”

I ran like a cheetah – well, like a cheetah that smoked too much.

You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.

Whatever you’re worried about, you’re bigger than the worries.

Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war.

What’s the meaning of life? Other people.

Not that smart. Not that hot. Not that nice. Not that funny. That’s me: I’m not that.

Books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.

We all use the future to escape the present.

We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either.

What is the point of being alive if you don’t at least try to do something remarkable?

Our lives are composed of a finite set of moments that we choose how to spend.

The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.

We’re all just facilitators. The real business is done by readers.

The human tongue is like wasabi: it’s very powerful, and should be used sparingly.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

He liked the mere act of reading, the magic of turning scratches on a page into words inside his head.

A lot of time I like to sing music that people can relate to, but not necessarily put them in a depressed mood.

Oh God, to think that you only fall in love once in your entire life is such a depressing thought.

Depression – it falls into that small category of things like combat that, if you haven’t been in it, you can say you can imagine it all you like. But it’s truly different.

It would be so depressing to be a model and not get to say a word. There’s no personality involved.

I painted the walls of my room with all my secret tears, filling the empty space with false hopes and fears.

During the Depression, my dad made radios to sell to make extra money. Nobody had any money to buy the radios, so he would trade them for dogs. He built kennels in the backyard, and he cared for the dogs.

Every now and then I hear voices in my head, but not very clear. I can’t understand what they are saying. It’s a mental illness. I have been diagnosed as a manic depressive.

Does it depress you? To know just how alone you really are?