“You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.”

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

There’s never an end for the sea.

My mistakes are my life.

There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

I gave up before birth.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

Fail, fail again, fail better.

I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

Birth was the death of him.

In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

A well-chosen anthology is a complete dispensary of medicine for the more common mental disorders, and may be used as much for prevention as cure.

If there’s any illness for which people offer many remedies, you may be sure that particular illness is incurable, I think.

Nature alone cures. What nursing has to do is to put the patient in the best condition for nature to act upon him.

Of all the calamities to which humanity is subject, none is so dreadful as insanity. … All experience shows that insanity seasonably treated is as certainly curable as a cold or a fever.

Every evil has its good, and every ill an antidote.

Every disease is a musical problem; every cure is a musical solution.

There is a naive belief that injustice only had to be pointed out in order to be cured.

All concerns of men go wrong when they wish to cure evil with evil.