Someday I will understand Auschwitz. This was a brave statement but innocently absurd. No one will ever understand Auschwitz. What I might have set down with more accuracy would have been: Someday I will write about Sophie's life and death$$$ and thereby help demonstrate how absolute evil is never extinguished from the world. Auschwitz itself remains inexplicable. The most profound statement yet made about Auschwitz was not a statement at all$$$ but a response.The query: "At Auschwitz$$$ tell me$$$ where was God?" And the answer: "Where was man?"

Most people in the grip of depression at its ghastliest are$$$ for whatever reason$$$ in a state of unrealistic hopelessness$$$ torn by exaggerated ills and fatal threats that bear no resemblance to actuality. It may require on the part of friends$$$ lovers$$$ family$$$ admirers$$$ an almost religious devotion to persuade the sufferers of life's worth$$$ which is so often in conflict with a sense of their own worthlessness$$$ but such devotion has prevented countless suicides.

Then I resolved that I would go back out there and somehow cope with the situation$$$ despite the fact that I lacked a strategy and was frightened to the pit of my being.

Depression in its major stages possesses no quickly available remedy: failure of alleviation is one of the most distressing factors of the disorder as it reveals itself to the victim$$$ and one that helps situate it squarely in the category of grave diseases.

We're in a giant car heading towards a brick wall and everyones arguing over where they're going to sit.

VALENTINE: Are you talking about Lord Byron$$$ the poet? BERNARD: No$$$ you fucking idiot$$$ we're talking about Lord Byron$$$ the chartered accountant.

Fantasy flows in where fact leaves a vacuum.

I will take his secret to the grave$$$ telling people I meet on the way.

Your opinions are your symptoms.

He says his aim is poetry. One does not aim at poetry with pistols. At poets$$$ perhaps.