Most books, like their authors, are born to die; of only a few books can it be said that death has no dominion over them; they live, and their influence lives forever.— William Styron
The most charming William Styron quotes that are simple and will have a huge impact on you
Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self -- to the mediating intellect-- as to verge close to being beyond description. It thus remains nearly incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it in its extreme mode.
A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading.
The pain of depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne. The prevention of many suicides will continue to be hindered until there is a general awareness of the nature of this pain.
Mysteriously and in ways that are totally remote from natural experience, the gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain.
I get a fine warm feeling when I'm doing well, but that pleasure is pretty much negated by the pain of getting started each day. Let's face it, writing is hell.
It's fine therapy for people who are perpetually scared of nameless threats as I am most of the time — for jittery people.
The pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it.
The pain is unrelenting; one does not abandon, even briefly, one's bed of nails, but is attached to it wherever one goes.
The mornings themselves were becoming bad now as I wandered about lethargic, following my synthetic sleep, but afternoons were still the worst, beginning at about three o'clock, when I'd feel the horror, like some poisonous fog bank roll in upon my mind, forcing me into bed.
Through the healing process of time-and through medical intervention or hospitalization in many cases-most people survive depression which may be its only blessing; but to the tragic legion who are compelled to destroy themselves there should be no more reproof attached than to the victims of terminal cancer.
A great book should leave you with many experiences.
It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul.
The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis, and we'd have a mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a bunch of happy chuckleheads.
I have learned to cry again and I think perhaps that means I am a human being again. Perhaps that at least. A piece of human being but, yes, a human being.
my brain had begun to endure its familiar siege: panic and dislocation, and a sense that my thought processes were being engulfed by a toxic and unnameable tide that obliterated any enjoyable response to the living world.
Let your love flow out on all living things.
A great book should leave you with many experiences and slightly exhausted at the end. You should live several lives while reading it.
For a person whose sole burning ambition is to write - like myself - college is useless beyond the Sophomore year.
I felt myself no longer a husk but a body with some of the body's sweet juices stirring again. I had my first dream in many months, confused but to this day imperishable, with a flute in it somewhere, and a wild goose, and a dancing girl.
The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis.
The stigma of self-inflicted death is for some people a hateful blot that demands erasure at all costs.
I think that one of the compelling themes of fiction is this confrontation between good and evil.
Many of the artifacts of my house had become potential devices for my own destruction: the attic rafters (and an outside maple or two) a means to hang myself, the garage a place to inhale carbon monoxide, the bathtub a vessel to receive the flow from my opened arteries. The kitchen knives in their drawers had but one purpose for me.
I felt a kind of numbness, an enervation, but more particularly an odd fragility - as if my body had actually become frail, hypersensitive and somehow disjointed and clumsy, lacking normal coordination. And soon I was in the throes of a pervasive hypochondria.
This was not judgment day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.
In Paris on a chilling evening late in October of 1985 I first became fully aware that the struggle with the disorder in my mind - a struggle which had engaged me for several months - might have a fatal outcome.
Every writer since the beginning of time, just like other people, has been afflicted by what a friend of mine calls
I felt the exultancy of a man just released from slavery and ready to set the universe on fire.
I try to get a feeling of what's going on in the story before I put it down on paper, but actually most of this breaking-in period is one long, fantastic daydream, in which I think about anything but the work at hand. I can't turn out slews of stuff each day. I wish I could. I seem to have some neurotic need to perfect each paragrapheach sentence, evenas I go along.
Reading - the best state yet to keep absolute loneliness at bay.
Which is worse, past or future? Neither.
I will fold up my mind like a leaf and drift on this stream over the brink.
Writers ever since writing began have had problems, and the main problem narrows down to just one word - life.
My life and work have been far from free of blemish, and so I think it would be unpardonable for a biographer not to dish up the dirt.
I think that the best of my generation.
..have reversed the customary rules of the game and have grown more radical as they have gotten older - a disconcerting but healthy sign. To be sure, there are many youngish old fogies around and even the most illustrious of these, William Buckley, is blessed by a puzzling, recondite but undeniable charm, almost as if beneath that patrician exterior an egalitarian was signaling to get out.
[However], the sufferer from depression has no option, and therefore finds himself, like a walking casualty of war, thrust into the most intolerable social and family situations. There he must ... present a face approximating the one associated with ordinary events and companionship. He must try to utter small talk and be responsive to questions, and knowingly nod, and frown and, God help him, even smile.
A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted.
You should live several lives while reading it.
Depression...so mysteriously painful and elusive.
We would have to settle for the elegant goal of becoming ourselves.
A disruption of the circadian cycle—the metabolic and glandular rhythms that are central to our workaday life—seems to be involved in many, if not most, cases of depression; this is why brutal insomnia so often occurs and is most likely why each day’s pattern of distress exhibits fairly predictable alternating periods of intensity and relief.
Writing is a form of self-flagellation.
The writer's duty is to keep on writing.
Let's face it, writing is hell.
Wickedly funny to read and morally bracing as only good satire can be.
The weather of Depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout.
I discovered that I had, in the past two decades, written a far greater amount in the essay form than I remembered. Certainly I have written enough of it to demonstrate that I harbor no disdain for literary journalism or just plain journalism, under whose sponsorship I have been able to express much that has fascinated me, or alarmed me, or amused me, or otherwise engaged my attention when I was not writing a book.
we each devise our means of escape from the intolerable.
Style comes only have long, hard practice and writing.
In the absence of hope we must still struggle to survive, and so we do-by the skin of our teeth.
Nonfiction writers are second-class citizens, the Ellis Island of literature.
We just can't quite get in. And yes, it pisses me off.