"But it's no use now," thought poor Alice, "to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!"

Talked my head off
Worked my tail off
Cried my eyes out
Walked my feet off
Sang my heat out
So you see,
There's really not much left of me.

I'm not much but I'm all I have.

Look. There’s only one of me, and it’s all I’ve got. I hate seeing myself dissolve and slip and separate so that I’m living in one half, my mind, and I see the other half of me helpless and frantic and driven and I can’t stop it, but I know I’m not really going to be hurt and yet time is so long and even a second goes on and on and I could stand any of it if I could only surrender —

The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours

More than half of my life is past; I have left only the time I need for turning the rest of it to account and for effacing my errors by my virtues.

Lately, I have been having nightmares, where I'm cut into so many pieces that there isn't enough of me to be put back together.

There are no men like me. There's only me

When you have nobody you can make a cup of tea for, when nobody needs you, that's when I think life is over.

I have so very much. I have so very little.

I put men first in pity, then found there was none left for me.

Respect for character is always diminished in proportion to the number among whom the blame or praise is to be divided. Conscience, the only remaining tie, is known to be inadequate in individuals: In large numbers, little is to be expected from it.

How frighteningly few are the persons whose death would spoil our appetite and make the world seem empty.

I see so little of you these days; your presence is as rare as that of one’s discarded mistress.