I sometimes think that I enjoy suffering. But the truth is I would prefer something else.
La literatura es la manera más agradable de ignorar la vida.
I’m losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.
Lord, may the pain be ours, And the weakness that it brings, But at least give us the strength, Of not showing it to anyone!
I'm upset by the happiness of all these men who don't know they're unhappy. Because of that, though, I love them all. Dear vegetables!
Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.
Better to dream than to be.
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.
This world is for those who are born to conquer it, Not for those who dream that are able to conquer it, even if they're right.
That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.
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.
But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?
Look, there's no metaphysics on earth but chocolates.
If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
The sea with an end can be Greek or Roman: the endless sea is Portuguese.
All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.
Changing from the ghosts of faith to the spectres of reason is just changing cells.
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.
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.
Life hurls us like a stone, and we sail through the air saying, "look at me move.
Destiny gave me only two things: a few accounting books and the gift of dreaming.
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'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.
When I write, I solemnly visit myself.
pg 9, "The consciousness of life's unconsciousness is the oldest tax levied on the intelligence.
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