Word - that invisible dagger.

I don’t understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity.

Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.

Every form of talent involves a certain shameless-ness.

By what aberration has suicide, the only truly normal action, become the attribute of the flawed?

Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.