It's been a long time since I've been me.

I know nothing and my heart aches

We live by action—by acting on desire. Those of us who don't know how to want—whether geniuses or beggars—are related by impotence.

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

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.

I'm astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed. My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from finishing; it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing something. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will's surrender. I begin because I don't have the strength to think; I finish because I don't have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice.

I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.