How uninteresting interesting things can become.

Listening to music, I always have exactly the same feeling: something’s missing. Never will I learn the cause of this gentle sadness, never will I wish to investigate it.

Today I told myself that in actual fact anyone who takes an innocuous and random delight in his life is an absolute lummox.

To the question: How do the authors of sketches, stories and novels get along in life, the following answer can or must be given: They are stragglers and they are down at heel.

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.

How uninteresting interesting things can become.

The novel I am constantly writing is always the same one, and it might be described as a variously sliced-up or torn-apart book of myself.