Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

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

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

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, who called love my hope for love.

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

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.