All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

I seek and don’t find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, neatly lined up in flowerpots.

Everything stated or expressed by man is a note in the margin of a completely erased text. From what's in the note we can extract the gist of what must have been in the text, but there's always a doubt, and the possible meanings are many.

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.

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

pg 9, "The consciousness of life's unconsciousness is the oldest tax levied on the intelligence.

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