If after I die, people want to write my biography, there is nothing simpler. They only need two dates: the date of my birth and the date of my death. Between one and another, every day is mine.

I'd like to be in the country so that I'd could like being in the city.

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

I never meant to be but a dreamer.

I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.

I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me.

For a long time now I haven't existed. I'm utterly calm. No one distinguishes me from who I am. I just felt myself breath as if I'd done something new, or done it late. I'm beginning to be conscious of being conscious. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up to myself and resume the course of my existence. I don't know if that will make more happy or less. I don't know anything.