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

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

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

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.

When we realize that words can destroy something good, wonderful, and dear, and that by keeping silent we can avoid causing the least damage or harm, it’s easy to stay silent.

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

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.