I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
I imagine that some people, like some toys, are born defective – which I suppose makes us all broken toys, don’t you think?
I haven’t the slightest idea how to change people, but still I keep a long list of prospective candidates just in case I should ever figure it out.
I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible.
I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.
I hate it when people are nice to me. It means something bad is going to happen.
I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.
I enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided a while ago not to deny myself the simpler pleasures of existence.
I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.
I do have an affinity for damaged people, in life, in roles. I don’t know why. We’re all damaged in our own way. Nobody’s perfect. I think we are all somewhat screwy, every single one of us.
I am for people. I can’t help it.
I am essentially a recluse who will have very little to do with people wherever he may be. I think that most people only make me nervous—that only by accident, and in extremely small quantities, would I ever be likely to come across people who wouldn’t.
