If I have a stupid day, everything looks wrong to me.
I am glad that I do not have any children.
A first visit to a madhouse is always a shock.
How one can live without being able to judge oneself, criticize what one has accomplished, and still enjoy what one does, is unimaginable to me.
Papa continually emphasizes how much remains unexplained. With the other psychoanalytic writers, everything is always so known and fixed.
Who promised you that only for joy were you brought to this earth?
We live trapped, between the churned-up and examined past and a future that waits for our work.
I am no longer afraid to say anything.
Everything becomes so problematic because of basic faults: from a discontent with myself.
Everyone here says in a surprised manner that I have grown… they are so stupid and do not notice that I am standing up straighter!
Children usually do not blame themselves for getting lost.
How can one know anything at all about people?
What I have always wanted for myself is much more primitive. It is probably nothing more than the affection of the people with whom I am in contact, and their good opinion of me.
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.
Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?