I contemplated pride and love. All this contemplativeness. When will I be free of it?

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.

Questions are usually more beautiful, more significant than their resolutions, which in fact never resolve them, are never sufficient to satisfy us, whereas from a question streams a wonderful fragrance.

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

This is freedom,' said the instructress, 'it's something very wintry, and cannot be borne for long. One must always keep moving, as we are doing here, one must dance in freedom. It is cold and beautiful. Never fall in love with it. That would only make you sad afterwards, for one can only be in the realm of freedom for a moment, no longer. Look how the wonderful track we are floating on is slowly melting away. Now you can watch freedom dying, if you open your eyes.

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.

Oh, whoever has been himself alone can never find another’s loneliness strange.