“Pain writes the words, sorrow wields the pen, tears wet the paper, and the story mends the heart.”

“What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? (Just to give you an idea, Proust’s reply was ‘To be separated from Mama.’) I think that the lowest depth of misery ought to be distinguished from the highest pitch of anguish. In the lower depths come enforced idleness, sexual boredom, and/or impotence. At the highest pitch, the death of a friend or even the fear of the death of a child.”

“But whichever form it took it brought with it, in those moments of bitter anguish, such a desperate surge of hope that it was almost untouchable, and flitted away like a golden butterfly into the bright blue sky – beautiful, unreachable and completely transistent.”

“But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.”

“The memory of a past happiness is the anguish of today”

“I desperately want someone to see the anguish of my soul, for to walk alone in that kind of anguish creates an anguish all its own.”