There was a rock in front of my hut, a tall, gray rock. By its looks it seemed to be well-disposed toward me.

I have had much to learn from Sweden's poetry and, more especially, from her lyrics of the last generation.

I have gone to the forest.

You are welcome to your intellectual pastimes and books and art and newspapers; welcome, too, to your bars and your whisky that only makes me ill. Here am I in the forest, quite content.

Heaven knows that there are plenty of opportunities in later life, too, for being carried away. What of it? We remain what we are and, no doubt, it is all very good for us!

...I will exile my thoughts if they think of you again, and I will rip my lips out if they say your name once more. Now if you do exist, I will tell you my final word in life or in death, I tell you goodbye.

What will I do when I can no longer dig?