These pages are not my confession; they’re my definition. And I feel, as I begin to write it, that I can write it with some semblance of truth.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.

To know how to think with emotions and to feel with intellect.

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.

Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.

I believe that saying a thing is to keep its virtues and take away its terror.