I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.

To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.

Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.

I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.

You are the only woman who ever answered the demands of my imagination.

I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.

The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.