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

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

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

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.

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

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.

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