This I want to believe implicitly: Man was born for love and revolution.
For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken that I am wretchedly timid and am forever trying to read the expression on people’s faces.
He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.
In spite of my suffering, at the thought that I was sure to end up by killing myself, I cried aloud and burst into tears.
It isn’t that I dislike artists, but I can’t stand anyone who puts on those ponderous airs of a man of character.
Last year nothing happenedThe year before nothing happenedAnd the year before that nothinghappened.
The wound has gradually become dearer to me than my own flesh and blood, and I have thought its pain to be the emotion of the wound as it lived or even its murmur of affection
For the first time in my life I realized what a horrible, miserable, salvationless hell it is to be without money.
Even if Mary gives birth to a child who is not her husband’s, if she has a shining pride, they become a holy mother and child.
After being hurt by the world so much, they began to see the demons within humans. So without hiding it through trickery, they worked to express it.
Anyway, you can be sure of one thing, a man’s got to fake just to stay alive.
I would far prefer to be told simply to go and die. It’s straightforward. But people almost never say, “Die!” Paltry, prudent hypocrites!
I wonder if there is anyone who is not depraved. A wearisome thought.I want money. Unless I have it….In my sleep, a natural death!
Humanity? Don’t be silly. I know. It is knocking down your fellow-men for the sake of your own happiness.
At times everything grows misty and dark before my eyes, and I feel that the strength of my whole body is oozing away through my finger tips.
I am afraid because I can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while I pursue my round of existence from day to day.
It is painful for the plant which is myself to live in the atmosphere and light of this world. Somewhere an element is lacking which would permit me to continue.
In our lives we know joy, anger, sorrow, and a hundred other emotions, but these emotions altogether occupy a bare one per cent of our time. The remaining ninety-nine per cent is just living in waiting.
Any connoisseur knows you’ve got to be drunk to really enjoy a good romance.
Even now it comes as a shock if by chance I notice in the street a face resembling someone I know however slightly, and I am at once seized by a shivering violent enough to make me dizzy.
I have sometimes thought that I have been burdened with a pack of ten misfortunes, any one of which if borne by my neighbor would be enough to make a murderer out of him.
And I was incapable of living all by myself in those lodgings where I didn’t know a soul. It terrified me to sit by myself quietly in my room. I felt frightened, as if I might be set upon or struck by someone at any moment.
Show me what you’ve written,” I said, although I wanted desperately to avoid looking at it.
I go about saying how pained and tormented, how lonely and sad I feel, but what do I really mean by that? If I were to speak the truth, I would die.
I felt as though the vessel if my suffering had become empty, as if nothing could interest me now. I had lost even the ability to suffer.
I am sure that the reason why I wept and stormed as if I had gone off my head was that the combination of physical exhaustion and my unhappiness had made me hate and resent everything.
To break free from this vexatious and awful never-ending cycle, this flood of outrageous thoughts, and to long for nothing more than simply to sleep–how clean, how pure, the mere thought of it is exhilarating.
It would seem that the more irresponsible and crafty one is, the more likely one is to have a talent for storytelling.
When you find yourself looking ridiculous, reasoning isn’t worth a damn.