Creative minds always have been known to survive any kind of bad training.

From error to error, one discovers the entire truth.

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.

We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.

Papa continually emphasizes how much remains unexplained. With the other psychoanalytic writers, everything is always so known and fixed.

Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?