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.

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

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

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

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

Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.

Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.