“A being who, as I grew older, lost imagination, emotion, a type of intelligence, a way of feeling things - all that which, while it made me sorry, did not horrify me. But what am I experiencing when I read myself as if I were someone else? On which bank am I standing if I see myself in the depths?”

“If I am not for myself, who is for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?”

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

“Reading all my old love letters was disorienting. You remember thinking the thoughts and writing the words but, man, you can't TOUCH those feelings. Its like they belonged to someone else. Someone you don't even know. I'm aware, in an intellectual way. That I felt all those things about him, but this emotions are far away now.What's so strange to me is that I can't even force my heart back to that place where I felt that all consuming passion. That makes me feel distant from myself. Who WAS I then? Will I ever be able to get back to that place? Reading the letters again made me wonder: Which is the real me? The one who saw the world in that emotionally saturated way, or the me who sees it the way I do now?”

“...I thought that having someone to love, having someone love me back, made me a stronger person. But it was the opposite. It made me weaker because it led me to believe that I couldn't survive without those things. And I spent so long afraid of being alone that I never did anything for myself. I never did anything with myself, which made it all the easier to believe I wasn't capable.”

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when? ”