Is it not true that no two human beings understand anything whatsoever about each other, that those who consider themselves bosom friends may be utterly mistaken about their fellow and, failing to realize this sad truth throughout a lifetime, weep when they read in the newspapers about his death?

Last year nothing happened The year before nothing happened And the year before that nothing happened.

The weak fear happiness itself. They can harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes they are wounded even by happiness

The weak fear happiness itself.

As for love . . . no, having once written that word I can write nothing more.

It would seem that the more irresponsible and crafty one is, the more likely one is to have a talent for storytelling.

I have always shook with fright before human beings. Unable as I was to feel the least particle of confidence in my ability to speak and act like a human being, I kept my solitary agonies locked in my breast. I kept my melancholy and my agitation hidden, careful lest any trace should be left exposed. I feigned an innocent optimism; I gradually perfected myself in the role of the farcical eccentric.