Lucas hated other people, and also hated himself.

Oh God, that conversation last night or this morning or whenever that devil-ridden scrap of nightmare had been. How could two rational beings go on and on simply saying the same awful things to each other week after week, month after month?

Happiness. What's that? I don't know. How can one be happy when one loves a demon?

I'll never be happy, how can you love me, I'm awful, I'm covered with spiders, I'm doomed.

I've not often been happy or thought it was in my stars.

I need love, I've never felt more in need of it than now. I feel so terribly terribly unhappy.

I am really in love and it's a terrible experience.

One can't whistle up happiness. It's a gift of nature and I haven't got it.

Everyone seemed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed except me.