Freud suggests that in order to love someone else, one must love themselves; it's a classic "needs before other needs" argument. Unfortunately, no one really loves themselves. And, if they do, they need to get to know themselves better. Unfortunately, no one is really happy.
The thirst for powerful sensations takes the upper hand both over fear and over compassion for the grief of others.
I don't intend to be a performing flea any more. I was the dreamweaver, but although I'll be around I don't intend to be running at 20,000 miles an hour trying to prove myself. I don't want to die at 40.
Be quiet! Anyone can spit in my face, and call me a criminal and a prostitute. But no one has the right to judge my remorse.
Part of me suspects that I'm a loser and the other part of me thinks I'm God Almighty.
The depression brought everybody down a peg or two. And the Negro had but few pegs to fall.
I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard.
My heart and prayers go out to every individual.
There she is, lying in front of me, smoking a cigarette, thinking of something or someone else. And that's how she is stuck in my mind forever. We are two explorers in the dark. Mapless and hopeless. Alone together.
Of this story I can say that it came to me in an irresistible form, crying to be written. It will be accused perhaps of being a mere piece of sentimentality, but, as I saw it, it was a great deal more. If, therefore, it lacks the ring of sincerity, or even, of tragedy, the fault rests not with the theme but with my handling of it.