I know nothing and my heart aches
I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.
La literatura es la manera más agradable de ignorar la vida.
Let's buy books so as not to read them; let's go to concerts without caring to hear the music or see who's there; let's take long walks because we're sick of walking; and let's spend whole days in the country, just because it bores us.
If, on thinking this, I look up to see if reality can quench my thirst, I see inexpressive facades, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stones, bodies, ideas - all dead. All movements are one great standstill. Nothing means anything to me, not because it's unfamiliar but because I don't know what it is. The world has slipped away. And in the bottom of my soul - as the only reality of this moment - there's an intense and invisible grief, a sadness like the sound of someone crying in a dark room.
God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
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.
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.
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.
Look, there's no metaphysics on earth but chocolates.
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.
But do we really live? To live without knowing what life is - is that living?
If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
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.
The sea with an end can be Greek or Roman: the endless sea is Portuguese.
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.
Changing from the ghosts of faith to the spectres of reason is just changing cells.
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.
Myth is the nothing that is all.
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.
Sailing is necessary, living is not necessary.
I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.
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