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.
To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.
I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.
Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.
Could it think, the heart would stop beating.