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When you’re sad you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.
Susanna Kaysen
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Susanna Kaysen
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: November 11
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
Structured
Sorrow
Hear
Sound
Need
Needs
More quotes by Susanna Kaysen
You have to have a somewhat cold heart to be a writer.
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Every window in Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.
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I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. You hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.
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I told her once I wasn’t good at anything. She told me survival is a talent.
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Mental illness seems to be a communication problem between interpreters one and two.
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Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me amplified. If you ever told a lie and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child forever.
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I'm your mind, it claims. You can't parse ME into dendrites and synapses
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A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.
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An observer can't tell if a person is silent and still because inner life has stalled or because inner life is transfixingly busy.
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Something about the goat dancing made me want to cry.
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By the time we hit the streets they were silent and closed in on us, and they had assumed the Nonchalant Look, an expression that said, I am not a nurse escorting six lunatics to the ice cream parlor. But they were, and we were their six lunatics, so we behaved like lunatics.
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Scar tissue has no character. It's not like skin. It doesn't show age or illness or pallor or tan. It has no pores, no hair, no wrinkles. It's like a slip cover. It shields and disguises what's beneath. That's why we grow it we have something to hide.
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All my integrity seemed to lie in saying No.
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When I was supposed to be awake, I was asleep. When I was supposed to sleep, I was silent. When a pleasure offered itself to me, I avoided it.
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Was insanity just a matter of dropping the act?
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It was a spring day, the sort that gives people hope: all soft winds and delicate smells of warm earth. Suicide weather.
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It's a long way from not having enough serotonin to thinking the world is stale, flat and unprofitable even further to writing a play about a man driven by that thought.
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What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?
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Not everything has a happy ending, and not everything has an ending. Some things just kind of dribble away or cut off abruptly.
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You could also request to be locked into the seclusion room. Not many people made that request. You had to request to get out too. A nurse would look through the chicken wire and decide if you were ready to come out. Somewhat like looking at a cake through the glass of the oven door.
Susanna Kaysen