I've always been keenly aware of the passing of time. I've always thought that I was old. Even when I was twelve, I thought it was awful to be thirty. I felt that something was lost. At the same time, I was aware of what I could gain, and certain periods of my life have taught me a great deal. But, in spite of everything, I've always been haunted by the passing of time and by the fact that death keeps closing in on us.

I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity.

Habit has a kind of poetry.

There is no justification for present existence other than its expansion into an indefinitely open future.

What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.

My life was hurrying, racing tragically toward its end. And yet at the same time it was dripping so slowly, so very slowly now, hour by hour, minute by minute. One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.

We always come back to the same vicious circle - an extreme degree of material or intellectual poverty does away with the means of alleviating it.