I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?

I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.

Writer speaks a stench.

So eager are our people to obliterate the present.

Always first draw fresh breath after outbursts of vanity and complacency.

The truth is always an abyss.

Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.