I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should, and so it all goes on in helpless darkness.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

In me, by myself, without human relationship, there are no visible lies. The limited circle is pure.

If what was supposed to have been destroyed in Paradise was destructible, then it was not decisive; but if it was indestructible, then we are living in a false belief.

I am free and that is why I am lost.

I can prove at any time that my education tried to make another person out of me than the one I became. It is for the harm, therefore, that my educators could have done me in accordance with their intentions that I reproach them; I demand from their hands the person I now am, and since they cannot give him to me, I make of my reproach and laughter a drumbeat sounding in the world beyond.