I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time.
Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.
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?
The horrors of war, pale beside the loss of a mother
Sometimes the most beautiful thing is precisely the one that comes unexpectedly and unearned, hence something given truly as a present.
Who promised you that only for joy were you brought to this earth?
Everything becomes so problematic because of basic faults: from a discontent with myself.
In our dreams we can have our eggs cooked exactly how we want them, but we can't eat them.
A first visit to a madhouse is always a shock.
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!
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.
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.
Create around one at least a small circle where matters are arranged as one wants them to be.
Sex is something you do. Sexuality is something you are.
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 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.
We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.
It is there all the time.
I am glad that I do not have any children.
Children usually do not blame themselves for getting lost.
Papa continually emphasizes how much remains unexplained. With the other psychoanalytic writers, everything is always so known and fixed.
If I have a stupid day, everything looks wrong to me.
How can one know anything at all about people?
We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.
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