Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.

For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.