What am I doing here?
In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.
The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.