What is art but the denial of life?

That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.

I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.

We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

Sadly I write in my quiet room, alone as I have always been, alone as I will always be. And I wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices, the longing for self expression of thousands of lives, the patience of millions of souls resigned like my own to their daily lot, their useless dreams, and their hopeless hopes.

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

Never having discovered qualities in myself which could attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.