Dress is important. It's part of being human. It might as well be a thing of beauty, something you take real pleasure in doing. And maybe in the proc… - William Styron

depression, when it finally came to me, was in fact no stranger, not even a visitor totally unannounced; it had been tapping at my door for decades.

There is no doubt that as one nears the penultimate depths of depression — which is to say just before the stage when one begins to act out one’s suicide instead of being a mere contemplator of it — the acute sense of loss is connected with a knowledge of life slipping away at accelerated speed. One develops fierce attachments. Ludicrous things — my reading glasses, a handkerchief, a certain writing instrument — became the objects of my demented possessiveness. Each momentary misplacement filled me with a frenzied dismay, each item being the tactile reminder of a world soon to be obliterated.

I shivered in the knowledge of the futility of all ambition. My mouth was sour with the yellow recollection of death and blood-smeared fields and walls. I watched the girl slip away, vanish without a hand laid upon her. Who knows but whether we were not doomed to lose. I know nothing any longer. Nothing. Did I really wish to vouchsafe a life for the one that I had taken?