Man is made or unmade by himself. By the right choice he ascends. As a being of power, intelligence, and love, and the lord of his own thoughts, he holds the key to every situation.

A man would prefer to come home to an unmade bed and a happy woman than to a neatly made bed and an angry woman.

I try to make my bed every day for mental health. Coming home to an unmade bed or a room with clothes all over will depress me.

Those who are made can be unmade.

A mind possessed by unmade books.

And having once chosen, never to seek to return to the crossroads of that decision-for even if one chooses wrongly, the choice cannot be unmade.

If I think myself to be made in my own image, I will have been unmade by my own hand.

It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing-they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. What then kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.

Man is made or unmade by himself. By the right choice he ascends. As a being of power intelligence and love and the lord of his own thoughts he holds the key to every situation.

A man would prefer to come home to an unmade bed and a happy woman than to a neatly made bed and an angry woman.

I try to make my bed every day for mental health. Coming home to an unmade bed or a room with clothes all over will depress me.