The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis, and we'd have mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a happy bunch of chuckleheads.

And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars.

The writer's duty is to keep on writing.

In depression this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come—not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute.

Let's face it, writing is hell.

Reading - the best state yet to keep absolute loneliness at bay.

It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul.

I don't know what to say. Don't try, she said, sighing. Oh, it's so hot! And thought, Indeed if I consider Charlottesville that will be all. Which is worse, past or future? Neither. I will fold up my mind like a leaf and drift on this stream over the Brink. Which will be soon, and then the dark, and then be done with this ugliness ...

To make matters worse, I was out of a job and had very little money and was self-exiled to Flatbush—like others of my countrymen, another lean and lonesome Southerner wandering amid the Kingdom of the Jews.

What I mean in simple terms, Reverend, is that once the alarm went out, there was niggers everywhere—who were as determined to protect and save their masters as you were to murder them. They was simply livin' too well!

The most futile thing a man can do is to ponder the alternatives, to stew and fret over the life that might have been lived if circumstances had not pointed his future in a certain direction.

Neath cold sand I dreamed of death / but woke at dawn to see / in glory, the bright, the morning star.

But oh, my brothers, black folk ain't never goin' to be led from bondage without they has pride! Black folk ain't goin' to be free, they ain't goin' to have no spoonbread an' sweet cider less'n they studies to love they own selves. Only then will the first be last, and the last first.

If there are Jews in this group, you have no right to live more than two weeks.' Then he said, ‘Any nuns here? Like the priests, you have one month. All the rest, three months.

I hate this type of unearned unhappiness.

Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self—to the mediating intellect—as to verge close to being beyond description.

In De Rerum Natura, Lucretius pointed out a very central truth concerning the examined life. That is, that the man of science who concerns himself solely with science, who cannot enjoy and be enriched by art, is a misshapen man. An incomplete man.

Is it best to know about a child's death, even one so horrible, or to know that the child lives but that you will never, never see him again?

The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne. The prevention of many suicides will continue to be hindered until there is a general awareness of the nature of this pain.

For the first time in my life, which had for years been sometimes witlessly gregarious, I discovered the pain of unwanted solitude. Like a felon suddenly thrown into solitary confinement, I found myself feeding off the unburned fat of inward resources I barely knew I possessed.

Maybe that's the key to happiness—being sort of dumb, not wanting to know any of the answers.

It is a positive and active anguish, a sort of psychical neuralgia wholly unknown to normal life.

There is only one way out--up the chimney.

A disruption of the circadian cycle—the metabolic and glandular rhythms that are central to our workaday life—seems to be involved in many, if not most, cases of depression; this is why brutal insomnia so often occurs and is most likely why each day's pattern of distress exhibits fairly predictable alternating periods of intensity and relief.

Time hangs heavy in the hospital, and the best I can say for Group Therapy is that it was a way to occupy the hours. More.

A good book should leave you... slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.

Perhaps, he thought, if I only think of this second, this moment, the train won't come at all. Think of the water, think of now.

Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self -- to the mediating intellect-- as to verge close to being beyond description. It thus remains nearly incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it in its extreme mode.

The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come -- not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow.

Edward was at the stage of drunkenness in which the ego glows like a coal, and brilliant people become more inspired, but in which dull people, fired by the same inspiration, become only more dull.

Are there, as science fiction and Gnostic speculation imply, different species of time in the same world, 'good time' and enveloping folds of inhuman time, in which men fall into the slow hands of the living damnation?

The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis.

It is I am sure a kind of unorthodoxy, and considered thus by some, I hear my master say (I resume my station, still flustered and with a madly working heart), but it is my conviction that the more religiously and intellectually enlightened a Negro is made, the better for himself, his master, and the commonweal.

We each devise our means of escape from the intolerable.

While I was able to rise and function almost normally during the earlier part of the day, I began to sense the onset of the symptoms at midafternoon or a little later- -gloom crowding in on me, a sense of dread and alienation and, above all, stifling anxiety.

You live several lives while reading.

But my behavior was really the result of the illness, which had progressed far enough to produce some of its most famous and sinister hallmarks: confusion, failure of mental focus and lapse of memory.

The libido also made an early exit, as it does in most major illnesses—it is the superfluous need of a body in beleaguered emergency.

I get a fine warm feeling when I'm doing well, but that pleasure is pretty much negated by the pain of getting started every day.

I suddenly encountered the face of loneliness, and decided that it was a merciless and ugly face indeed.

Mysteriously and in ways that are totally remote from natural experience, the gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain.

Writing is a fine therapy for people who are perpetually scared of nameless threats... for jittery people.

The grief is coming now, she said to herself: He's beginning to know what suffering is. Perhaps that's good in a way. Even he. Perhaps that's good for a man—finally to know what suffering is, to know what a woman somehow knows almost from the day she's born.

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, Ché la diritta via era smarrita. In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wood, For I had lost the right path.

Through some happy accident of heredity he had escaped his father's tediousness, while retaining a little of his mother's jolly high spirits and humor. This did not make him anything special, but at least he was good-natured.

Oh, I would say, you've never understood me, Harry, that not out of vengeance have I accomplished all my sins but because something has always been close to dying in my soul, and I've sinned only in order to lie down in darkness and find, somewhere in the net of dreams, a new father, a new home.

They had begun just lately—rumors about the Loftises, rumors about another woman, whisperings which disturbed him not so much because they concerned the Loftises—whom he didn't know too well, in any case—but because they upset his notions about the prevalence of human decency.

Writing for me is the hardest thing in the world, but also a thing which, once completed, is the most satisfying. ... I am no prodigy but, Fate willing, I think I can produce art.

I was still in this state of being a little girl and thinking that this wonderful life so comfortable and safe and secure would continue forever. Mama.