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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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death
dreaming
insomnia
life
lost
place
sleep
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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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insomnia
restlessness
sadness
sleep
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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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insomnia
sleep
tourette-s
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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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death
immortality
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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apple
apples
april
auden
autumn
burns
byron
coffee
de-la-mare
fall
hart-crane
insomnia
keats
longfellow
may
milton
morris
night
nocturnal
poetry
poets
pope
schiller
season
seasons
september
shelley
spender
spring
tea
tennyson
winter
wordsworth
writers
writing
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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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insomnia
insomniac
left
left-handed
pnin
sleep
vladimir-nabokov
wrist
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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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alcoholic
alone
binging
cat
cats
drinking
empty-your-head
ignorance
ignoring
insomnia
lonely
mantra
murphy-s-law
playing-hard-to-get
self-assurance
sleep
sleeping
stop-thinking
talking-to-yourself
the-mind
thinking
thinking-process
thoughts
voices-inside-your-head
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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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insomnia
sleep
sleepless
sleeplessness
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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depressed
depression
health
insomnia
intensity
mental-health
mental-illness
psychology
relief
rhythm
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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
inaction
inertia
insomnia
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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
destruction
insomnia
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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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bipolar-disorder
blog
blogger
depression
insomnia
interview
memoir
mental-health
recovery
writing
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Andy Behrman |