I sometimes think that I enjoy suffering. But the truth is I would prefer something else.

I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.

The abstract intelligence produces a fatigue that's the worst of all fatigues. It doesn't weigh on us like bodily fatigue, nor disconcert like the fatigue of emotional experience. It's the weight of our consciousness of the world, a shortness of breath in our soul.

The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.

But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

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 am nothing. I'll never be anything. I couldn't want to be something. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.