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.

The weak fear happiness itself.

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.

Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

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

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.

Having said that, I must now admit that I was still afraid of human beings, and before I could meet even the customers in the bar I had to fortify myself by gulping down a glass of liquor. The desire to see frightening things—that was what drew me every night to the bar where, like the child who squeezes his pet all the harder when he actually fears it a little, I proclaimed to the customers standing at the bar my drunken, bungling theories of art.