After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge. The flagellant’s curse, he thought,… - Richard Matheson

After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge.

When you sleep, your dream world is as real to you as life, isn’t it?

A man could get used to anything if he had to.

Then he went into the dining room, consulting his watch. It was ten thirty already. More than half the morning was gone. More than half the time for sitting and trying to write the prose that would make people sit up and gasp. It happened that way more often now than he would even admit to himself. Sleeping late, making up errands, doing anything to forestall the terrible moment when he must sit down before his typewriter and try to wrench some harvest from the growing desert of his mind. (“Mad House”)