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.

I'm a man for whom the outside world is an inner Reality.

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

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.

My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that's really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.

My soul's the present shadow of a presence gone.