Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence... someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence, certainly never.

By imposing too great a responsibility, or rather, all responsibility, on yourself, you crush yourself.

I need solitude for my writing; not 'like a hermit' - that wouldn't be enough - but like a dead man.

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

Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

I am more uncertain than I ever was; I feel only the power of life. And I am senselessly empty.

If I shall exist eternally, how shall I exist tomorrow?