There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.
Women are all the bloody sameyou can’t love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.
Art has always been this – pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric – whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.
An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
That penny farthing hell you call your mind.
Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most.
My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.
The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
Enough to know no knowing.
Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It’s abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.
That is one of the many reasons why I avoid speaking as much as possible. For I always say either too much or too little, which is a terrible thing for a man with a passion for truth like mine.
In an instant all will vanish and we’ll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness.
That is what I find so wonderful, that not a day goes by... hardly a day, without some addition to one’s knowledge however trifling, the addition I mean, provided one takes the pains.
We are no longer the same, you wiser but not sadder, and I sadder but not wiser, for wiser I could hardly become without grave personal inconvenience, whereas sorrow is a thing you can keep adding to all your life long, is it not, like a stamp or an egg collection, without feeling very much the worse for it, is it not.