Reality is never and nowhere more accessible than in the immediate moment of one's own life.
There can be no more beautiful spot to die in, no spot more worthy of total despair, than one's own novel.
Hold fast! then you too will see the unchangeable dark distance, out of which nothing can come except one day the chariot; it rolls up, gets bigger and bigger, fills the whole world at the moment it reaches you - and you sink into it like a child sinking into the upholstery of a carriage that drives through the storm and night.
I asked myself at the time: how is it that she is not astonished at herself, that she keeps her mouth closed, and expresses nothing of any wonderment?
How lonely it is here, and how well it suits you.
I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.