Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.

Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.

To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.