Even if no salvation should come, I want to be worthy of it at every moment.
There can be no more beautiful spot to die in, no spot more worthy of total despair, than one's own novel.
I could have built the Pyramids with the effort it takes me to cling on to life and reason.
Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.
How many days have again gone silently by; today is 28 May. Have I not even the resolution to take this penholder, this piece of wood, in my hand every day? I really think I do not. I row, ride, swim, lie in the sun.
The true way goes over a rope which is not stretched at any great height but just above the ground. It seems more designed to make people stumble than to be walked upon.