Elizabeth Wurtzel

Feminism is a good venue for getting yourself across as much as for getting your point across.

Sometimes I wish that there were a way to let people know that just because I live in a world without rules, and in a life that is lawless, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt so bad the morning after.

In a strange way, I had fallen in love with my depression.

I’d really like to write a book about Timothy McVeigh, but it would only work if he cooperated.

Like, in high school, I was a good student and got straight As. It was very strict and you couldn’t do well there unless you studied very hard, but every time there was any trouble, I was the first person they would be talking to.

I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is.

Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?… I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t.

Everything’s plastic, we’re all gonna die.

In life, single women are the most vulnerable adults. In movies, they are given imaginary power.

I’ll see Naomi Wolf on television periodically, I have nothing against her and what she says, but I’ll feel that she’s a politician, like she’s got an agenda to get across and that she doesn’t always say what’s really true or exactly what she feels.

I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn’t one I’ll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if it’s worth it.

It was just very interesting to me that certain types of women inspire people’s imagination, and all of them were very difficult women.

I admire Bruce Springsteen because he’s a heroic person who has lots of integrity and has this incredible body of work that is so vital.

Insanity is knowing that what you’re doing is completely idiotic, but still, somehow, you just can’t stop it.

I always carry lots of stuff with me wherever I roam, always weighted down with books, with cassettes, with pens and paper, just in case I get the urge to sit down somewhere, and oh, I don’t know, read something or write my masterpiece.

It’s like Samson and Delilah: watch your back, because trouble could be the person you’re sleeping with.

My life’s actually been quite dull; it’s not all that glamorous.

Am I worried people will say I’m repeating myself? Sure. One thought I had was to publish it as a novel but eventually I just decided to do what I wanted to do.

I don’t want any more vicissitudes, I don’t want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.

I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my agony.

Ritalin abuse is a big issue in the US.

That’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.

Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was alright for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left.

You don’t even have to hate to have a perfectly miserable time.

All I do is go to the movies.