Praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.

I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam; that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.

I can offer you only: this world like a knife

We must travel in the direction of our fear.

I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature.

This world is gradually becoming a place Where I do not care to be any more.