If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.

I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.

Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.

Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.

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

Was I asleep? Had I slept?