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I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
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sleep
death
life
insomnia
place
dreaming
lost
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Raymond Carver |
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It was that sort of sleep in which you wake every hour and think to yourself that you have not been sleeping at all; you can remember dreams that are like reflections, daytime thinking slightly warped.
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sleep
sadness
insomnia
restlessness
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Kim Stanley Robinson |
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Insomnia is a variant of Tourette's--the waking brain races, sampling the world after the world has turned away, touching it everywhere, refusing to settle, to join the collective nod. The insomniac brain is a sort of conspiracy theorist as well, believing too much in its own paranoiac importance--as though if it were to blink, then doze, the world might be overrun by some encroaching calamity, which its obsessive musings are somehow fending off.
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sleep
tourette-s
insomnia
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Jonathan Lethem |
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Waking up was a daily cruelty, an affront, and she avoided it by not sleeping.
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immortality
death
insomnia
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Gregory Maguire |
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The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.
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seasons
winter
poets
poetry
writing
apple
april
auden
byron
de-la-mare
insomnia
longfellow
may
morris
nocturnal
season
september
shelley
spender
tennyson
pope
apples
coffee
spring
wordsworth
milton
fall
hart-crane
autumn
tea
keats
night
writers
burns
schiller
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Helen Bevington |
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He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.
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sleep
pnin
wrist
left-handed
vladimir-nabokov
insomnia
left
insomniac
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Vladimir Nabokov |
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Sleep is like a cat: It only comes to you if you ignore it. I drank more and continued my mantra. 'Stop thinking', swig, 'empty your head', swig, 'now, seriously empty your head'.
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sleep
thoughts
drinking
binging
empty-your-head
ignoring
playing-hard-to-get
stop-thinking
talking-to-yourself
voices-inside-your-head
thinking-process
the-mind
self-assurance
murphy-s-law
mantra
insomnia
sleeping
alone
cat
ignorance
thinking
cats
alcoholic
lonely
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Gillian Flynn |
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For there is nothing quite so terror-inducing as the loss of sleep. It creates phantoms and doubts, causes one to questions one's own abilities and judgement, and, over time, dismantles, from within, the body.
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sleep
sleepless
sleeplessness
insomnia
terror
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Charlie Huston |
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A disruption of the circadian cycle--the metabolic and glandular rhythms that are central to our workaday life--seems to be involved in many, if not most, cases of depression; this is why brutal insomnia so often occurs and is most likely why each day's pattern of distress exhibits fairly predictable alternating periods of intensity and relief.
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depression
insomnia
rhythm
intensity
health
depressed
relief
mental-illness
psychology
mental-health
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William Styron |
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In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to the past--sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories.
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depression
inertia
insomnia
inaction
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George Eliot |
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During last night's insomnia, as these thoughts came and went between my aching temples, I realised once again, what I had almost forgotten in this recent period of relative calm, that I tread a terribly tenuous, indeed almost non-existent soil spread over a pit full of shadows, whence the powers of darkness emerge at will to destroy my life...
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darkness
insomnia
destruction
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Franz Kafka |
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What delicious abandon in the sleep of the child. Where do we lose it?
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faith
insomnia
maturation
worry
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Frank Herbert |
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Like Sylvia Plath, Natalie Jeanne Champagne invites you so close to the pain and agony of her life of mental illness and addiction, which leaves you gasping from shock and laughing moments later: this is both the beauty and unique nature of her storytelling. With brilliance and courage, the author's brave and candid chronicle travels where no other memoir about mental illness and addiction has gone before. The Third Sunrise is an incredible triumph and Natalie Jeanne Champagne is without a doubt the most important new voice in this genre.
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blog
depression
writing
blogger
insomnia
memoir
bipolar-disorder
recovery
mental-health
interview
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Andy Behrman |