There will be no proof that I ever was a writer.

I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.

I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.

I usually solve problems by letting them devour me.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.

One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer.

In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.