My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.
I am the escaped one, After I was born They locked me up inside me But I left. My soul seeks me, Through hills and valley, I hope my soul Never finds me.
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.
Everyone has his vanity, and each one's vanity is his forgetting that there are others with an equal soul.
To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)
Art gives us the illusion of liberation from the sordid business of being.
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.
I'm the empty stage where various actors act out various plays.
I’m losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.
I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.
The end of lower art is to please, the end of average art is to raise the top, the end of superior art is to free.
The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.
Everything is theater.
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!
Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.
Life is whatever we conceive it to be.
Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.
Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.
To be great, be whole; Exclude nothing, exaggerate nothing that is not you. Be whole in everything. Put all you are Into the smallest thing you do. So, in each lake, the moon shines with splendor Because it blooms up above.
Oh salty sea, how much of your salt Is tears from Portugal?
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
If we knew the truth, we'd see it; all else is system and outskirts.
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.
Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.
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.
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