At times everything grows misty and dark before my eyes, and I feel that the strength of my whole body is oozing away through my finger tips.

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?

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

It isn't that I dislike artists, but I can't stand anyone who puts on those ponderous airs of a man of character.

Unhappiness. There are all kinds of unhappy people in the world. I suppose it would be no exaggeration to say that the world is composed entirely of unhappy people. But those people can fight their unhappiness with society fairly and squarly, and society for its part easily understands and sympathizes with such struggles. My unhappiness stemmed entirely from my own vices, and I had no way of fighting anybody.

I want to spend my time with people who don't look to be respected. But such good people won't want to spend their time with me.

As long as I can make them laugh, it doesn’t matter how, I’ll be alright. If I succeed in that, the human beings probably won’t mind it too much if I remain outside their lives. The one thing I must avoid is becoming offensive in their eyes: I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky.