I can’t change the past, and I don’t think I would. I don’t expect to be understood. I like what I’ve written, the stories and two novels. If I had to give up what I’ve written in order to be clear of this disease, I wouldn’t do it.
I can’t change the past, and I don’t think I would. I don’t expect to be understood. I like what I’ve written, the stories and two novels. If I had to give up what I’ve written in order to be clear of this disease, I wouldn’t do it.
I awake with a not entirely sickened knowledge that I am merely young again and in a funny way at peace, an observer who is aware of time’s chariot, aware that some metamorphosis has occurred.
There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.
It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.
Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.
Neurotics complain of their illness, but they make the most of it, and when it comes to talking it away from them they will defend it like a lioness her young.
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