The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.

So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.

Putting my hand in someone else’s has always been my definition of happiness. Before I fall asleep, often - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and go into the greater world - often, before I get up the courage to go into the vastness of sleep, I pretend that someone has my hand in theirs, and then I go, go to that enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even after that I don’t have courage, I dream.

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

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.