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“I too feel the vast and shapeless melancholy of having been created. I’d rather have stayed in the immanescence of the sacred Nothing. But there is a wisdom of nature that caused me, after being created, to move about even though I didn’t know what my legs were for.”

“I do not remember my previous life, since I have the result which is today. But I remember tomorrow.”

“— It was God who invented me and gave His breath to me and I became a living being. And so it is that I present to myself a person. And therefore I think that I am sufficiently born to try to express myself even if with rough words. It’s my interior that speaks and sometimes without connection to my conscious mind.“

“I wonder: why does God demand our love? possible answer: so that we might love ourselves and in loving ourselves, forgive ourselves. And how we need forgiveness. Because life itself already comes muddled with error.”

“Do I have the breath within me? do I? but who does? who speaks for me? do I have a body and a spirit? am I an I? “That’s exactly right, you are an I,” the world answers me terribly. And I am horrified. God must never be thought because either He flees or I do. God must be ignored and felt. Then He acts. “

“In every word a heart beats. Writing is that search for the intimate truth of life. Life that disturbs me and leaves my own trembling heart suffering the incalculable pain that seems necessary for my maturity — maturity? I’ve lived this long without it!”

“The act of writing is the inevitable result of my being alive. I lost sight of myself so long ago that I’m hesitant to try to find myself. I’m afraid to begin. Existing sometimes gives me heart palpitations. I’m so afraid to be me. I’m so dangerous. They gave me a name and alienated me from myself.”

“My vocabulary is sad and sometimes Wagnerian-polyphonic-paranoid. I write very simple and very naked. That’s why it wounds. I’m a gray and blue landscape. I rise in a dry fountain and in the cold light.”

“Will I be able to quit honorably? or am I the type who waits stubbornly for something to happen? something like, for instance, the end of the world? or whatever it might be, maybe my own sudden death, in which case my decision to give up would be beside the point.”

“To know when to quit. Whether to give up — this is often the question facing the gambler. No one is taught the art of walking away. And the anguish of deciding if I should keep playing is hardly unusual.”

'Yes, there always remains something....Never mind, here I am, sane and dry, with my place to hide in. What more do I want?....I'm a bit of an automaton, but sane, surely- dry, cold and sane.'

"And even sadness was the privilege of the rich, of those who could afford it, of those who had nothing better to do. Sadness was a luxury."

“Are there thousands of others like her? Yes, thousands of others who are mere accidents of nature. And if one thinks about it carefully, aren't we all mere accidents of nature? I have only escaped from a similar fate because I am a writer.”

“In truth, no matter how bad one's childhood may have been, it always sounds enchanted in recollection, how awful!”

“She found consolation in being sad. Not desperate, for she was much too modest and simple to indulge in despair, but that indefinable quality associated with romantics. It goes without saying that she was neurotic. Neurosis sustained her. Dear God, neurosis counted for something: almost as good as crutches.”

“things happen and you suddenly know. No one would teach her how to die one day: yet one day she would surely die as if she had already learned by heart how to play the starring role. For at the hour of death you become a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.”

“Perhaps she felt there was e glory in living. She thought that a person was obliged be happy. So she was happy. Before being born was she an idea? Before being born was she dead? And after being born was she about to die? What a thin slice of water melon.”

“Perhaps she felt there was e glory in living. She thought that a person was obliged be happy. So she was happy. Before being born was she an idea? Before being born was she dead? And after being born was she about to die? What a thin slice of water melon.”

“Prayer was a means of confronting myself in silence away from the gaze of others. As I prayed I emptied my soul - and this emptiness is everything that I can ever hope to possess. Apart from this, there is nothing. But emptiness, too, has its value and somehow resembles abundance.“

“Just as l am writing at the same time as l am being read. Only I do not start with the ending that would justify the beginning — as death appears to comment on life — because I must record the preceding event.”

“The more genuine part of my life is unrecognizable, extremely intimate and impossible to define. My heart has shed every desire and reduced itself to one final or initial beat.”

“The more genuine part of my life is unrecognizable, extremely intimate and impossible to define. My heart has shed every desire and reduced itself to one final or initial beat.”

“Everything in the world begin a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I do not know why, but I do know that the universe never began.”