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

I am the escaped one, After I was born They locked me up inside me But I left. My soul seeks me, Through hills and valley, I hope my soul Never finds me.

Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.

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.

As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don’t know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).

In the very corner of my soul there is an altar to a different god.

I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.