The self-criticism of a tired mind is suicide.

I always think the same thing when I read about someone committing suicide. I think, "There, but for the grace of God, go I." I think, "There's only a twist of Fate between me and them." I think, "It could have been me." I think, "I hope that I can give someone else a reason to live through today so that he or she will give me a reason to live through tomorrow."

Suicide is the most sincere form of self-criticism.

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live.

No neurotic harbors thoughts of suicide which are not murderous impulses against others redirected upon himself.

No matter how much a woman loved a man, it would still give her a glow to see him commit suicide for her.

A suicide kills two people. . . that's what it's for.

Suicide is about life, being in fact the sincerest form of criticism life gets.

Everyone knew what you were thinking. No one thought you would actually carry it out. Now they know.

Why - ? Above the spreading pool of blood no questions reach the land you have sought. And no words can any longer call you back. - That eternal "Beyond" - where you are separated from us by a death chosen long before the bullet hit the temple.

And when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night, you took your life, as lovers often do, but I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

Perhaps a man may commit suicide in self-defense.

Don't they know I promised to die!? I'm keeping in practice, I'm merely staying in shape.

Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New York City will not mind. At night, the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.

I could admit that I am only a coward, crying me me me. But, surely, you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him. So, I will go now, without old age or disease, wildy but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, "Where are we going?" We were riding (if I'd only known) to this.

But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters, they want to know which tools . They never ask why build.

I cry, swallowing the do-die pills. Listen Ducky, death is as close to pleasure as a toothpick. To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.

Hallelujah I sang, singing as I burned to nothing in the tremor of the flames.

I write large suicide notes and place them so he can read them easily. I destroy the living room furniture to prove I own nothing of value.

I came back to my birthplace to announce my death. I said I would ride full gallop into the sea and not look back. People were furious. I told them about attempts I had made in the past, how I starved in order to be the size of Lucille. They were shocked.

The thought of suicide is a powerful comfort: it helps one through many a dreadful night.