There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.

From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy.

He thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness.

If I can write everything out plainly, perhaps I will myself understand better what has happened.

I go about looking at horses and cattle. They eat grass, make love, work when they have to, bear their young. I am sick with envy of them.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.