Every window in Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.
The world didn’t stop because we weren’t in it anymore.
I wasn’t convinced I was crazy, though I feared I was. Some people say that having any conscious opinion on the matter is a mark of sanity, but I’m not sure that’s true. I still think about it. I’ll always have to think about it.
Recovered. Had my personality crossed over that border, whatever and wherever it was, to resume life within the confines of normal? Had I stopped arguing with my personality and learned to straddle the line between sane and insane?
I would if somebody would want to but of course nobody would want to so I wouldn’t want to force anybody to want to.
Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.
If I could have any job in the world I’d be a professional Cinderella.
I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won’t.
Actually, it was only part of myself I wanted to kill: the part that wanted to kill herself, that dragged me into the suicide debate and made every window, kitchen implement, and subway station a rehearsal for tragedy.
An observer can’t tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.
I told her once I wasn’t good at anything. She told me survival is a talent.
Was everybody seeing this stuff and acting as though they weren’t? Was insanity just a matter of dropping the act?