Life is good, but Wine is better.
Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.
Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.
There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness
Life is full of paradoxes, as roses are of thorns.
Have you ever considered, beloved other, how invisible we are to each other? We look at each other without seeing. We listen to each other and hear only a voice inside out self. The words of others are mistakes of our hearing, shipwrecks of our understanding. How confidently we believe OUR meanings of other people's words.
There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.
Every man who deserves to be famous knows it is not worth the trouble.
I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect
I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.
The world belongs to who doesn't feel. The primary condition to be a practical man is the absence of sensitivity.
Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.
Life is whatever we conceive it to be.
To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that's really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.
Could it think, the heart would stop beating.
As we wash our body so we should wash destiny, change life as we change clothes.
Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!
I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.
To create, I destroyed myself; I made myself external to such a degree within myself that within myself I do not exist except in an external fashion. I am the living setting in which several actors make entrances, putting on several different plays.
There’s enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.
There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breath life into me.
Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.
I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.
Being tired of all illusions and of everything about illusions – the loss of illusions, the uselessness of having them, the prefatigue of having to have them in order to lose them, the sadness of having had them, the intellectual shame of having had them knowing that they would have to end this way.
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