People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.

What is meant by its nature for the highest and the best, spreads among the lowly people.

Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.

I, however, cannot force myself to use "meat drugs" to cheat on my loneliness.

It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

Each of us has his own way of emerging from the underworld, mine is by writing. That's why the only way I can keep going, if at all, is by writing, not through rest and sleep. I am far more likely to achieve peace of mind through writing than the capacity to write through peace.

The old incapacity. Interrupted my writing for barely ten days and already cast out. Once again prodigious efforts stand before me. You have to dive down, as it were, and sink more rapidly than that which sinks in advance of you.