Man is what he wills himself to be.

I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything.

Let it crumble! Let the rocks revile me and flowers wilt at my coming. Your whole universe is not enough to prove me wrong. You are the king of gods, king of stones and stars, king of the waves of the sea. But you are not the king of man.

One should commit no stupidity twice, the variety of choice is, in the end, large enough.

You must be like me; you must suffer in rhythm.

There it is: I am gently slipping into the water's depths, towards fear.

I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it caresses me — and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me.