I am not here [in the sanitarium] to write, but to be mad.

I am not here [in the sanitarium] to write, but to be mad.

I'd like to die listening to a piece of music. I imagine this as so easy, so natural, but naturally it's quite impossible. Notes stab too softly. The wounds they leave behind may smart, but they don't fester. Melancholy and pain trickle out instead of blood. When the notes cease, all is peaceful within me again.

With all my ideas and follies I could one day found a corporate company for the propagation of beautiful but unreliable imaginings.

How small life is here and how big nothingness. The sky, tired of light, has given everything to the snow. The two trees bow their heads to each other. Clouds cross the world’s silence in a circle dance

That is all very senseless, but this senselessness has a pretty mouth, and it smiles.

At least we should learn to understand our fellow beings, for we are powerless to stop their misery, their ignominy, their suffering, their weakness, and their death.