Joan Didion

We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

The Doors seemed unconvinced that love was brotherhood and the Kama Sutra. The Doors’ music insisted that love was sex and sex was death and therein lay salvation.

In time of trouble, I had been trained since childhood, read, learn, work it up, go to the literature. Information was control.

It was in fact the ordinary nature of everything preceding the event that prevented me from truly believing it had happened, absorbing it

Just so. I am what I am. To look for "reasons" is beside the point.

Just so. I am what I am. To look for “reasons” is beside the point

To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commission and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice or carelessness.

by the conviction that writing was an irrelevant act, that the world as I had understood it no longer existed. If I was to work again at all, it would be necessary for me to come to terms with disorder.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything

To lack it is to be locked within oneself,