Never read a book to the end, nor even in sequence and without skipping.

What Hells and Purgatories and Heavens I have inside of me! But who sees me do anything that disagrees with life--me, so calm and peaceful?

I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.

I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.

A being who, as I grew older, lost imagination, emotion, a type of intelligence, a way of feeling things - all that which, while it made me sorry, did not horrify me. But what am I experiencing when I read myself as if I were someone else? On which bank am I standing if I see myself in the depths?

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

Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.