In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness: To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.
I hate everything that does not relate to literature, conversations bore me (even if they relate to literature), to visit people bores me, the sorrows and joys of my relatives bore me to the very soul. Conversation takes the importance, the seriousness, the truth, out of everything I think.
Work as joy, inaccessible to the psychologists.
This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.
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