“I've learned that if I stay busy, especially by helping others, I don't think about my pain. In an odd way, my pain is its own therapy. I intend to go on until I can't go anymore. ”

“The only private language I know is self-exaggeration. I think I've grown a second self in this room. It's the self-important fool that keeps the writer going. I exaggerate the pain of writing, the pain of solitude, the failure, the rage, the confusion, the helplessness, the fear, the humiliation. The narrower the boundaries of my life, the more I exaggerate myself. If the pain is real, why do I inflate it? Maybe this is the only pleasure I'm allowed.”

“I didn't just hear music. It seemed as if I were part of the music.”

“One question keeps troubling me: Why?. . . The short answer: I don't know. and yet that single word, why, remains the consummate human query. By nature, we're curious. We want to know. ”

“I woke up to singing and found myself singing too”

“I don't recognize myself. I don't know who I am anymore." And it's all fun and games until someone loses an I.”

“I complained to a friend that although I had completed six years in therapy, my mother still wouldn’t let me go. He replied, "She’s not supposed to let you go. Your father is supposed to come and get you.”