The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.
Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.