Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.

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.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.