Your letters arrived today together, at noon, they aren’t there to be read, but to be unfolded, to rest one’s face on while losing one’s mind.
I must be alone a great deal. What I have achieved is only a result of being alone.
In a way, I was already punished before I knew I had done anything wrong.
A cage went in search of a bird.
Weightlessly, bonelessly, bodilessly walked for two hours through the streets.
In the past I couldn’t manage to express myself freely with new acquaintances because the presence of sexual desires unconsciously hindered me, now I’m hindered by their conscious absence.
In what an effortless sleepiness I wrote this useless, unfinished thing.
Mit unsern Antworten entwerten wir unsere Fragen.
Yesterday evening during a walk every little street noise, every glance directed at me, every photograph in a display case was more important to me than I was.
The contentment today in my room. Hollow as a shell on the beach, ready to be crushed by a footstep.
The most widespread individuality of writers consists, after all, in the fact that each conceals his bad qualities in an entirely particular way.
One stands painfully pinned against the wall, fearfully lowers one’s eyes to see the hand that pins and with a new pain that makes one forget the old, recognizes one’s own crooked hand, which holds you with a strength it never had for good work. One raises one’s head, again feels the first pain, again lowers one’s eyes and this up and down never ceases.
Open yourself. Let the human person come forth. Breathe in the air and the silence.
I hide away from people not because I want to live in peace but because I want to perish in peace.
You cannot love me, much as you would like; you are unhappily in love with your love for me, but your love for me is not in love with you.
I’m not suggesting that you don’t master German. Most of the time you master it surprisingly well and if once in a while you don’t, it bows before you of its own accord, and this is particularly pleasing, for this is something a German doesn’t dare to expect from his language, he doesn’t dare to write so personally.
I can’t hold enough of you in my hands.
I had long been running through the darkness, this way and that, guided by nothing but a vague yearning.
I will probably die in silence, surrounded by silence.
The distraction, the weakness of memory, the stupidity!