We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.
We live trapped, between the churned-up and examined past and a future that waits for our work.
If some longing goes unmet, don't be astonished. We call that Life.
Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?
I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time.
Create around one at least a small circle where matters are arranged as one wants them to be.
Sometimes the most beautiful thing is precisely the one that comes unexpectedly and unearned, hence something given truly as a present.
My different personalities leave me in peace now.
Papa continually emphasizes how much remains unexplained. With the other psychoanalytic writers, everything is always so known and fixed.
It is only when parental feelings are ineffective or too ambivalent or when the mother's emotions are temporarily engaged elsewhere that children feel lost.
Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.
If I have a stupid day, everything looks wrong to me.
Things are not as we would like them to be. There is only one way to deal with it, namely to try and be all right oneself.
We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.
Papa always makes it clear that he would like to know me as much more rational and lucid than the girls and women he gets to know during his analytic hours.
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