I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.
I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.

Aldous Huxley