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A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life.

I live in my dreams — that’s what you sense. Other people live in dreams, but not in their own. That’s the difference.

I was disconsolate that life seemed to pass me by, that no strong current took hold of me, no great passion inflamed me or pulled me out of this stupefying trance.

A savage desire for strong emotions and sensations burns inside me: a rage against this soft-tinted, shallow, standardized and sterilized life, and a mad craving to smash something up, a department store, say, or a cathedral, or myself.

My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.

“I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.”

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.