Light black. From pole to pole.

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.

The only sin is the sin of being born.

How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?

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.