Deserts of vast eternity

22 December. Today I do not even dare to reproach myself. Shouted into this empty day, it would have a disgusting echo.

16 December. I won’t give up the diary again. I must hold on here, it is the only place I can.

…therefore, it has teeth only for his own flesh and flesh only for his own teeth.

Sunday, 19 July, slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

Finally, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me, and for which no power will compensate me, though all were under obligation to do so, it occurs to me to talk to myself again.

10 o’clock, 15 November. I will not let myself become tired. I’ll jump into my story even though it should cut my face to pieces.

The outside lights were on, and it was snowing, and it looked like magic.

Once for all, my heart is so constituted that everything it loves and treasures grows deeply rooted in it, and when uptorn, causes wounds and suffering. …

The mere fact that a woman should treat me in so friendly a way was a great event in my life.

The stupefied world gives up weakly and begins its siesta, a siesta like a kind of delicious death in which the sleeper, half awake, tastes the delights of his own annihilation.

Was I made for solitude or for a life in which there was no one to whom I could speak?

The logical reward of my detachment from life is the incapacity I’ve created in others to feel anything for me. There’s an aureole of indifference, an icy halo, that surrounds me and repels others.

The happiest moments of my life were dreams, and dreams of sorrow, and I saw myself in their ponds like a blind Narcissus who enjoyed the coolness as he bent over the water, aware of his reflection to his abstract emotions and maternally adored in the recesses of his imagination.

Time suddenly stops to let you pass, and I get you all wrong when I try to put you into life, or into its semblance.

I’m suffering from a headache and the universe.