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.

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?

Life hurls us like a stone, and we sail through the air saying, "look at me move.

I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.

I always live in the present. The future I can't know. The past I no longer have.

It's been months since I last wrote. I've lived in a state of mental slumber, leading the life of someone else. I've felt, very often, a vicarious happiness. I haven't existed. I've been someone else. I've lived without thinking.

Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.