Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.

If I was dead, I wouldn't know I was dead. That's the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.

But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.