Neither mine nor other people's prospects seem particularly pleasing just at the moment, and I have fantasies of going to Iceland, never to return. As it is, I tell myself not to remember the past, not to hope or fear for the future, and not to think in the present, a comprehensive program that will undoubtedly have very little success.

Some tiny creature, mad with wrath, is coming nearer on the path.

Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.

Such excess of passion is quite out of fashion

Only art means anything.

I have given up considering happiness as relevant.

Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.