My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.
If only our mediocre brains were able to embalm our memories! But they aren’t easy to preserve. The most delicate ones shrivel away, the most voluptuous ones rot. The most delicious ones are the most dangerous in the long run.
In order to understand, I destroyed myself.