Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

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

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

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.