Everything is theater.

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.

We’ve been devastated by the severest and deadliest drought in history – that of our profound awareness of the futility of all effort and the vanity of all plans.

Attention to detail and a perfectionist instinct, far from stimulating action, are character qualities that lead to renunciation. Better to dream than to be.

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

Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.