I can prove at any time that my education tried to make another person out of me than the one I became. It is for the harm, therefore, that my educators could have done me in accordance with their intentions that I reproach them; I demand from their hands the person I now am, and since they cannot give him to me, I make of my reproach and laughter a drumbeat sounding in the world beyond.

Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be better to say it sustains this kind of life? Which doesn't mean life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write - which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.

Logic may indeed be unshakeable, but it cannot withstand a man who is determined to live.

Evil is whatever distracts.

What is written is merely the dregs of experience.

In me, by myself, without human relationship, there are no visible lies. The limited circle is pure.

My doubts stand in a circle around every word, I see them before I see the word, but what then! I do not see the word at all, I invent it.