Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be better to say it sustains this kind of life? Which doesn't mean life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write - which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.

The founder brought the laws from the lawgiver; the faithful are meant to announce the laws to the lawgiver.

You, who can't do anything, think you can bring off something like that? How can you even dare to think about it? If you were capable of it, you certainly wouldn't be in need of it.

If you find someone who makes you smile, who checks up on you often to see if you're okay. Who watches out or you and wants the best for you. Who loves and respects you. Don't let them go. People like that are hard to find.

A stair not worn hollow by footsteps is, regarded from its own point of view, only a boring something made of wood.

So eager are our people to obliterate the present.

I am more uncertain than I ever was; I feel only the power of life. And I am senselessly empty.