But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?

I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.

To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

Literature exists because the world isn't enough.

That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.

I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.

The sea with an end can be Greek or Roman: the endless sea is Portuguese.