There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.
I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.
Ah, who will save me from existing? It's neither death nor life that I want.
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.
To be understood is to prostitute oneself
Life is a thread that someone entangled.
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.
Contradiction is the essence of the universe.
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.
I realize that, while often happy and often cheerful, I am always sad.
Every day things happen in the world that cannot be explained by any law of things we know. Every day they're mentioned and forgotten, and the same mystery that brought them takes them away, transforming their secret into oblivion. Such is the law by which things that can't be explained must be forgotten. The visible world goes on as usual in the broad daylight. Otherness watches us from the shadows.
I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it’s not me.
One never lives so intensely as when one has been thinking hard.
Every man who deserves to be famous knows it is not worth the trouble.
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.
Could it think, the heart would stop beating.
Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.
I always live in the present. I don’t know the future and no longer have the past. The former oppresses me as the possibility of everything, the latter as the reality of nothing.
There’s enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.
My joy is as painful as my pain.
We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.
Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.
And I, who timidly hate life, fear death with fascination. I fear this nothingness that could be something else, and I fear it as nothing and as something else simultaneously, as if gross horror and non-existence could coincide there, as if my coffin could entrap the eternal breathing of a bodily soul, as if immortality could be tormented by confinement. The idea of hell, which only a satanic soul could have invented seems to me to have derived from this sort of confusion - a mixture of two different fears that contradict and contaminate each other.
Ah, what a morning this is, awakening me to life's stupidity. [98 - Zenith trans.]
Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.
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