It would be very unjust to say that you deserted me, but that I was deserted, and sometimes terribly so, is true.

You see, I have only such a fugitive awareness of things around me that I always feel they were once real and are now fleeting away.

The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. Only after death, only in solitude, does a man’s true nature emerge. In death, as on the chimney sweep’s Saturday night, the soot gets washed from his body.

Maybe innocence makes its way easiest through the elemental chaos of this world.

What is gayer than believing in a household god?

There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.

Art is for the artist is only suffering through which he releases himself for further suffering.