“Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.”

You won’t believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.

We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.

The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.

The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Better hope deferred than none.

All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

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.

Joy and sorrow, beauty and deformity, equally pass away.

Truth is often eclipsed but never extinguished.

Sometimes you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel until you’ve learned how to live in the dark.

There are some people who still don’t understand. But I know by the end of my fulfillment they will.

Life is like an endless book. Each day is a new page and only death can bring the end to this little book of yours.

The lesser we have to care about whether someone is a narcissist or not, the better we will end up improving our private lives.

Darling, our story was a beautifully tragic thing. Magical as it happened unbearable when it ended.

It doesn’t matter what you expected, but you must accept what reality offers to you at the end.