Through an experience that simultaneously involved my sensibility and intelligence, I realized early on that the imaginative life, however morbid it might seem, is the one that suits temperaments like mine. The fictions of my imagination (as it later developed) may weary me, but they don't hurt or humiliate. Impossible lovers can't cheat on us, or smile at us falsely, or be calculating in their caresses. They never forsake us, and they don't die or disappear. --The book of Disquiet

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.

Should you ask me if I'm happy, I'll answer that I'm not.

FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough.

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

If after I die, people want to write my biography, there is nothing simpler. They only need two dates: the date of my birth and the date of my death. Between one and another, every day is mine.