“my brain is many colors, vague,like massed flowers:total spectrum of petalsbeginning with black.I wear my costume insidelike blood and bones, keep graphs of my ups and downs,discover people laugh moreat my falls than at my flying.The moral of this story is:sad eyes need also tears.”

“So I shall practice sorrow in my love,stand in thin sun from old windows and grieve:inevitability of the grave,monotony of death, partitioned lives.”

“When the heart stops oozing blood & the outpouring is clear as water (so to speak) then you know you've turned the corner & will be well.When you look inward & all pathwaysare no longer dark but clearly lighted& shine like transparent drinking strawsthen you know you'll find your way alone.When the gray morning has nothing to do with you & doesn't weigh you downlike a heavy blanket, then you knowthat moving will be easy again and your body will flow through timelike the river it really is, smooth & deep.no rocks, no shallows to smash or catch you,keep you from moving on.When the heart slowsto its normal rhythm and the beautyof birdsong at dawn doesn't make you cry because you are alone listening, then you know that everything has happened that is going to for now, and you can get on withyour life & everything about it that was yours alone and always finer thananyone could ever imagine it would bewithout him. ”

“My language limitations here are real. My vocabulary is adequate for writing notes and keeping journals but absolutely useless for an active moral life. If I really knew this language, there would surely be in my head, as there is in Webster's or the Dictionary of American Slang, that unreducible verb designed to tell a person like me what to do next.”

“So we shall wonder little, blink our eyesat repetitions of the sun and moon;a briefer death than death i take for mine,and you are content in your frozen place.A narrow light, but certain: we can sharethe cliffs of winter, marvelous and sheer.”

“It's one of the things that makes us different than they are, Harry. The blood on their hands does not make it right to bloody my own. My choices are measured against my own soul. Not against the stains on theirs.”

“DECISION NOT TO COMMIT SUICIDEI can no longer ignore the silver deathof dandelions: more beautifulthan any dying I could do.Brown alive and into summerwe are (you and I) here-there.It is the same sun.Death is far small silver in the huge air.”