The chill of what I won't feel gnaws at my present heart.

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

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.

pg.9 "In my heart there's a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.

I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not to write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with everything I could have said.

I take with me the conscience of defeat as a victory banner.

Friends: not one. Just a few acquaintances who imagine they feel something for me and who might be sorry if a train ran over me and the funeral was on a rainy day.