In life there are certain sores which, like a kind of canker, slowly erode the soul in solitude.

What relationship could exist between the lives of the fools and healthy rabble who were well, who slept well, who performed the sexual act well, who had never felt the wings of death on their face every moment - what relationship could exist between them and one like me who has arrived at the end of his rope and who knows that he will pass away gradually and tragically?

I write only for my shadow which is cast on the wall in front of the light. I must introduce myself to it.

My one fear is that tomorrow I may die without having come to know myself.

I thought to myself: if it’s true that every person has a star in the sky, mine must be distant, dim, and absurd. Perhaps I never had a star.

I have finally learned that I must remain silent as much as possible. I must always keep my thoughts to myself.

Ugh! How many stories about love, copulation, marriage and death already exist, not one of which tells the truth! How sick I am of well-constructed plots and brilliant writing!