I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity. Yet in a less assured mood, birth seems a calamity I would be miserable not having known

What is that one crucifixion compared to the daily kind any insomniac endures?

For a long time-always, in fact-I have known that life here on earth is not what I needed and that I wasn't able to deal with it; for this reason and for this …

Some have misfortunes; others, obsessions. Which are worse off?