What is written is merely the dregs of experience.

I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more

The door could not be heard slamming; they had probably left it open, as is the custom in homes where a great misfortune has occurred.

Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

Only our concept of time makes it possible for us to speak of the Day of Judgment by that name in reality it is a summary court in perpetual session.

Please — consider me a dream.

Death confronts us not unlike the historical battle scene that hangs on the wall of the classroom. It is our task to obscure or quite obliterate the picture by our deeds while we are still in this world.