The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

 

 

 

It'll be a hard day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ones who made us are always looking for the ones who made them. They go in, fold their hands, look around their feet, sing songs... and when they come out it's usually me they find. I've picked up a lot of business on this spot. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has been my experience that one cannot, in any shape or form, depend on human relations for any lasting reward. It is only work that truly satisfies. 

Looking for Greta's bathroom, I went into the first one on the right, attracted by all kinds of pleasant smells. The glass shelves were loaded with bottles of cologne and perfume, and there were soaps of all colors, bath salts, and oil beside the tub—and an electric razor. Wrong one. I thought, this is George's bathroom. I tried the opposite one. This was Greta's all right; her swimsuit was hanging on a hook. Otherwise the room was practically bare: a toothbrush, a comb with a couple of teeth missing, half a bar of Lux soap.

You gotta kill the person you were born to be in order to become the person you want to be.

Jane tried to convert me to religion. I tried to introduce her to Freud.

How can you've lived for so long and still not get it? This self obsession is a waste of living. It could be spend in surviving things, appreciating nature, nurturing kindness and friendship, and dancing.

The hard part is when everyone around you thinks they know who you are and they try to lay claim to you and you are trapped.

She is condemned to live in a small cloistered world because of her reluctance or inability to accept the responsibilities of adult friendship. 

- Bainbridge

When people think they know who you are, they try to lay claims to you. Then you’re trapped.

I don't know how to be myself. It's like I'm permanently outside myself. Like, like you could push your hands straight through me if you wanted to. And I can see the type of man I want to be versus the type of man I actually am and I know that I'm doing it but I'm incapable of doing what needs to be done. I'm like Pinocchio, a wooden boy. Not a real boy. And it kills me.