Our art is a way of being dazzled by truth: the light on the grotesquely grimacing retreating face is true, and nothing else.

Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way.

It is comforting to reflect that the disproportion of things in the world seems to be only arithmetical.

I lack nothing. I only needed myself.

I made the remark that I don't avoid people in order to live quietly, but rather in order to be able to die quietly.

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

April 27. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone - never.