My mistakes are my life.

Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.

I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.

For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.

The only sin is the sin of being born.

Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.