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.

Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

What is art but the denial of life?

And as well as I dream, I reason if I want, for that's just another kind of dream.

I search and can't find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.

Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.