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.

You too have weapons.

The door could not be heard slamming; they had probably left it open, as is the custom in homes where a great misfortune has occurred.

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

Every dog has like me the impulse to question, and I have like every dog the impulse not to answer.

Time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straightforward life is not possible, then one must try to wriggle through by subtle manoeuvres.

There is a destination but no way there; what we refer to as way is hesitation.