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.

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?

My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.

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

I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort

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

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?