Impromptu thoughts are mental wild-flowers.

I hear nothings, I speak nothings, I take interest in nothing and from nothing to nothing I travel gently down the dull way which leads to becoming nothing.

I love nothing and that is the true cause of my ennui.

Let us strive to improve ourselves, for we cannot remain stationary; one either progresses or retrogrades.

The first step is the hardest.

Heed the still small voice that so seldom leads us wrong, and never into folly.

. . . everything seems insupportable to me. This may very well be because I am insupportable myself.