He went to bed early, but could not fall asleep. He was haunted by sad and gloomy reflections about the inevitable end- death. These thoughts were familiar to him, many times had he turned them over this way and that, first shuddering at the probability of annihilation, then welcoming it, almost rejoicing in it. Suddenly a peculiarly familiar agitation took possession of him... He mused awhile, sat down at the table, and wrote down the following lines in his sacred copy-book, without a single correction.

I've become convinced that every person should treat himself strictly and even rudely and distrustfully; it's difficult to tame the beast in oneself.

That is what poetry can do. It speaks to us of what does not exist, which is not only better than what exists, but even more like the truth.

I look up to heaven only when I want to sneeze.

I believe love produces a certain flowering of the whole personality which nothing else can achieve.

Belonging to oneself--the whole essence of life lies in that.

I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.