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.

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

Every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls

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

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.

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.