I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.

Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.

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.

What is written is merely the dregs of experience.

In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness: To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.

People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as 'nauseatingly miserable beyond repair'.

The cruelty of death lies in the fact that it brings the real sorrow of the end, but not the end. The greatest cruelty of death: an apparent end causes a real sorrow. Our salvation is death, but not this one.