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

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.

Ah, what a morning this is, awakening me to life's stupidity. [98 - Zenith trans.]

I think of life as an inn where I have to stay until the abyss coach arrives. I don't know where it will take me, for I know nothing.

My hapless peers with their lofty dreams--how I envy and despise them! I'm with the others, the even more hapless, who have no-one but themselves to whom they can tell their dreams and show what would be verses if they wrote them. I'm with those poor slobs who have no books to show, who have no literature beside their own soul, and who are suffocating to death due to the fact that they exist without having taken that mysterious, transcendental exam that makes one eligible to live.

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.