Existence is an imperfection.
Your scare me rather. My reflection in the glass never did that; of course, I knew it so well. Like something I had tamed...I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.
My existence began to worry me seriously. Was I not a simple spectre?
When a man gets drunk he gets sentimental. That's what I wanted to avoid.
But what a poor lie: no one has any rights; they are entirely free, like other men, they cannot succeed in not feeling superfluous. And in themselves, secretly, they are superfluous, that is to say, amorphous, vague, and sad.
Death is a continuation of my life without me...