I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture.

I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.

I think it is all a matter of love.

By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.