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

A horse is freedom so indominable that it becomes useless to imprison it to serve man: it lets itself be domesticated, but with a simple, rebellious toss of the head-shaking its mane like an abundance of free-flowing hair-it shows that its inner nature is always wild, translucent and free.

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

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

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

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

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