There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
Just because your doctor has a name for your condition, doesn't mean he knows what it is.
I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.
Better to have, and not need, than to need, and not have.
He is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.
If the literature we are reading does not wake us, why then do we read it? A literary work must be an ice-axe to break the sea frozen inside us.
I do not see the world at all; I invent it.
I’m doing badly, I’m doing well; whichever you prefer.
I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
Isolation is a way to know ourselves.
You can choose to be free , but it's last decision you'll ever make
I lack nothing. I only needed myself.
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
The meaning of life is that it stops.
All language is but a poor translation.
I wanted to escape the unrest, to shut out the voices around me and within me, so I write.
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
If you become involved with me, you will be throwing yourself into the abyss.
You are so vulnerably haunting. Your eeriness is terrifyingly irresistible.
Anything that has real and lasting value is always a gift from within.
Follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.
I have no memory for things I have learned, nor things I have read, nor things experienced or heard, neither for people nor events; I feel that I have experienced nothing, learned nothing, that I actually know less than the average schoolboy, and that what I do know is superficial, and that every second question is beyond me. I am incapable of thinking deliberately; my thoughts run into a wall. I can grasp the essence of things in isolation, but I am quite incapable of coherent, unbroken thinking. I can't even tell a story properly; in fact, I can scarcely talk.
I can love only what I can place so high above me that I cannot reach it.
In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.
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