I suppose no one truly admits the existence of another person.
On the other side sit we — the errand boy from around the corner, the unruly playwright William Shakespeare, the barber who tells stories, the schoolmaster John Milton, the shop assistant, the vagabond Dante Alighieri, those whom death either forgets or consecrates and whom life forgot and never consecrated.
Having never discovered qualities in myself that might attract someone else, I could never believe that anyone felt attracted to me.
Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.
The great anguishes of the soul always come upon us like cosmic cataclysms. When they do, the sun errs from its course and the stars are troubled. A day will come to every feeling soul when Fate stages an apocalypse of anguish, an upturning of all known heavens and universes over the soul's desolation.