“The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.”

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

I feel terribly vulnerable and ‘not-myself’ when I’m not writing.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow. There’s nothing behind my eyes. I’m a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal.

I dream too much, work too little.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

I am myself. That is not enough.

I did not have to read books to know that the theme of life is conflict and pain.

Republicans are for both the man and the dollar, but in case of conflict the man before the dollar.

Where wisdom reigns, there is no conflict between thinking and feeling.

Without frustration you will not discover that you might be able to do something on your own. We grow through conflict.

I am not a victim of emotional conflicts. I am human.

The harder the conflict, the greater the triumph.

Peace does not mean an absence of conflicts; differences will always be there.

Conflict exists strictly as an opportunity to raise our consciousness.