What I write is different from what I say, what I say is different from what I think, what I think is different from what I ought to think and so it goes further into the deepest darkness.

Writer speaks a stench.

This inescapable duty to observe oneself: if someone else is observing me, naturally I have to observe myself too; if none observe me, I have to observe myself all the closer.

As far as I have seen, at school...they aimed at blotting out one's individuality.

There is a down-and-outness under true knowledge and a childlike happy arising from it.

I won't give up the diary again. I must hold on here, it is the only place I can.

This perversion of the truth, familiar to the artist though it was, always unnerved him afresh and proved too much for him. What was a consequence of the premature ending of his fast was here presented as the cause of it! To fight against this lack of understanding, against a whole world of nonunderstanding, was impossible.