I fear me, I fear me: this is one of the profoundly damned. I blurt out something that should, perhaps, be withheld for several hundred pages — but that damned thing was the size of an elephant.

You talk too damn much and too damn much of it is about you.

...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.

After my talk, he went into some kind of rant about how the “odd human case” didn’t mean much of anything and that it was sort of a bizarre consequence of prior epilepsy, etcetera.

"It's a bore," he said out loud.
"What is, my dear?"
"Anything you do too bloody long."

When a person’s speech is full of anger, it is because he or she suffers deeply.

"In my dreams, crowds were chanting, challenging me, shouting, "Follow us and fit in!" I wanted to tell him that life itself has turned into a prowling lion. I wanted to tell him that I needed to escape the blaze of bullshit."

You are a badass. You were one when you came screaming onto this planet and you are one now. The Universe wouldn't have bothered with you otherwise. You can't screw up so majorly that your badassery disappears. It is who you are. It's who you always will be. It's not up for negotiation.

As for literary criticism in general: I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or a banana split.

I know I am talking nonsense, but I’d rather go rambling on, and partly expressing something I find it difficult to express, than to keep on transmitting faultless platitudes.

You are a badass. You were one when you came screaming onto this planet and you are one now. The Universe wouldn’t have bothered with you otherwise. You can’t screw up so majorly that your badassery disappears. It is who you are. It’s who you always will be. It’s not up for negotiation. You are loved. Massively. Ferociously. Unconditionally. The Universe is totally freaking out about how awesome you are. It’s got you wrapped in a warm gorilla hug of adoration. It wants to give you everything you desire. It wants you to be happy. It wants you to see what it sees in you. You are perfect. To think anything less is as pointless as a river thinking that it’s got too many curves or that it moves too slowly or that its rapids are too rapid. Says who? You’re on a journey with no defined beginning, middle or end. There are no wrong twists and turns. There is just being.

Sorrow with me, Sorrowful one!
Tell me, whose voice proclaims
Things true and sad,
Naming by all their old, unhappy names,
What drove me mad —

All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting – it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.

Read it like a motherfucker.