And, like the great damned souls, I shall always feel that thinking is worth more than living.

I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people with the metaphysical absurdity known as ‘flesh and blood’. In fact, ‘flesh and blood’ describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive.

My hapless peers with their lofty dreams--how I envy and despise them! I'm with the others, the even more hapless, who have no-one but themselves to whom they can tell their dreams and show what would be verses if they wrote them. I'm with those poor slobs who have no books to show, who have no literature beside their own soul, and who are suffocating to death due to the fact that they exist without having taken that mysterious, transcendental exam that makes one eligible to live.

Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.

To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.

I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice