Ignorance of the law of irreducibility was no excuse. I could no longer excuse myself with the claim that I didn't know the law -- for knowledge of self and of the world is the law that, even though unattainable, cannot be broken, and no one can excuse himself by saying that he doesn't know it. . . . The renewed originality of the sin is this: I have to carry out my unknowing, I shall be sinning originally against life.

Facts and particulars annoy me.

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

How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?

I have grown weary of literature: silence alone comforts me. If I continue to write, it’s because I have nothing more to accomplish in this world except to wait for death. Searching for the word in darkness. Any little success invades me and puts me in full view of everyone. I long to wallow in the mud. I can scarcely control my need for self-abasement, my craving for licentiousness and debauchery. Sin tempts me, forbidden pleasures lure me. I want to be both pig and hen, then kill them and drink their blood.

Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.