Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.

A book should serve as an axe to the ice inside us.

There sat I, a faded being, under faded leaves.

Self-control means wanting to be effective at some random point in the infinite radiations of my spiritual existence.

The ulterior motives with which you absorb and assimilate Evil are not your own but those of Evil.

What am I doing here in this endless winter?

I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should, and so it all goes on in helpless darkness.