Never have I thought that I was the happy possessor of a "talent;" my sole concern has been to save myself by work and faith.

The writer is committed when he plunges to the very depths of himself with the intent to disclose, not his individuality, but his person in the complex society that conditions and supports him.

One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one's death, one dies one's life.

Outside nature, against nature, without excuse, beyond remedy, except what remedy I find within myself.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.

Some of these days, Oh, you'll miss me honey

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.