I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.
I look at myself but I’m missing. I know myself: it’s not me.
The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!
We almost always live outside ourselves, and life itself is a continual dispersion. But it’s towards ourselves that we tend, as towards a centre around which, like planets, we trace absurd and distant ellipses.
Every spoken word double-crosses us. The only tolerable form of communication is the written word, since it isn’t a stone in a bridge between souls but a ray of light between stars.
I’m the empty stage where various actors act out various plays.
I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.
Literature exists because the world isn’t enough.
Better to dream than to be.
My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.
I’m sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.
For who expects nothing, all that comes is grateful.
I never go to where’s a risk. I’m frightened of dangers down to boredom.
Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.
Look, there’s no metaphysics on earth like chocolates.
Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.
I know not what tomorrow will bring.
We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.
To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.
I’m something that I used to be. I’m never where I feel I am, and if I seek myself, I don’t know who’s seeking me. My boredom with everything has numbed me. I feel banished from my soul.