Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!
The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day.
Strength without agility is a mere mass.
My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.
It's been months since I last wrote. I've lived in a state of mental slumber, leading the life of someone else. I've felt, very often, a vicarious happiness. I haven't existed. I've been someone else. I've lived without thinking.
Art lies because it's social.
The perfect man of pagans was the perfection of the man there is; the perfect man of christians, the perfection of the man there isn't; the buddhists' perfect man, the perfection of not existing a man.
Today I suddenly experienced an absurd but quite valid sensation. I realized, in an intimate lightning flash, that I am no one. No one, absolutely no one.
Life is whatever we conceive it to be.
La literatura es la manera más agradable de ignorar la vida.
I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.
There is no happiness without knowledge. But knowledge of happiness is unhappy; for knowing ourselves happy is knowing ourselves passing through happiness, and having to, immediatly at once, leave it behind. To know is to kill, in happiness as in everything. Not to know, though, is not to exist.
Decadence is the total loss of unconsciousness, which is the very basis of life. Could it think, the heart would stop beating.
When I write, I solemnly visit myself.
If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
Friends: not one. Just a few acquaintances who imagine they feel something for me and who might be sorry if a train ran over me and the funeral was on a rainy day.
I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.
I search and can't find myself. I belong in chrysanthemum time, sharp in calla lily elongations. God made my soul into an ornamental thing.
I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.
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.
I believe that saying a thing is to keep its virtues and take away its terror.
Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!
Every spoken word double-crosses us. The written word is the only tolerable form of communication, as it isn't a stone in a bridge between souls but a ray of light between stars.
I belong to a generation - assuming that this generation includes others besides me - that lost its faith in the gods of the old religions as well as in the gods of modern nonreligions. I reject Jehova as I reject humanity.
Everyone has his vanity, and each one's vanity is his forgetting that there are others with an equal soul.
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