Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye

I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.

Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho

There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone; in fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

The Moods, by W. B. Yeats

Time drops in decay, Like a candle burnt out, And the mountains and the woods Have their day, have their day; What one in the rout Of the fire-born moods Has fallen away?

Mad Girl's Love Song, by Sylvia Plath

The Power of the Dog, by Rudyard Kipling

 

There is sorrow enough in the natural way 

From men and women to fill our day; 

And when we are certain of sorrow in store, 

Why do we always arrange for more? 

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware 

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. 

 

Buy a pup and your money will buy 

Love unflinching that cannot lie-- 

Perfect passion and worship fed 

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. 

Nevertheless it is hardly fair 

To risk your heart for a dog to tear. 

 

When the fourteen years which Nature permits 

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, 

And the vet's unspoken prescription runs 

To lethal chambers or loaded guns, 

Then you will find--it's your own affair-- 

But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear. 

 

When the body that lived at your single will, 

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!). 

When the spirit that answered your every mood 

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, 

You will discover how much you care, 

And will give your heart to a dog to tear. 

 

We've sorrow enough in the natural way, 

When it comes to burying Christian clay. 

Our loves are not given, but only lent, 

At compound interest of cent per cent. 

Though it is not always the case, I believe, 

That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: 

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, 

A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- 

So why in--Heaven (before we are there) 

Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?