I stand on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried along by this tram, nor for the people who give way to the tram or walk quietly along or stand gazing into shop windows. Nobody asks me to put up a defense, indeed, but that is irrelevant.

I am away from home and must always write home, even if any home of mine has long since floated away into eternity.

Most men are not wicked... They are sleep-walkers, not evil evildoers.

Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.

Nothing, you know, gives the body greater satisfaction than ordering people about, or at least believing in one's ability to do so.

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

One has just been sent out as a biblical dove, has found nothing green, and slips back into the darkness of the Ark