All Of Living Is Nothing But A

Very Often We Write Down A Sentence Too Early, Then Another Too Late; What We Have To Do Is Write It Down At The Proper Time, Otherwise It's Lost.

People Keep A Dog And Are Ruled By This Dog, And Even Schopenhauer Was Ruled In The End Not By His Head, But By His Dog. This Fact Is More Depressing Than Any Other.

I Would Be The Unhappiest Person Imaginable, Confronted Daily With Disastrous Works Crying Out With Errors, Imprecision, Carelessness, Amateurishness. I Avoided This Punishment By Destroying Them, I Thought, And Suddenly I Took Great Pleasure In The Word Destroying.

You Are Never Truly Together With One You Love Until The Person In Question Is Dead And Actually Inside You.

I Really Only Write About Inner Landscapes And Most People Don't See Them, Because They See Practically Nothing Within, Because They Think That Because It's Inside, It's Dark, And So They Don't See Anything. I Don't Think I've Ever Yet, In Any Of My Books, Described A Landscape. There's Really Nothing Of The Kind In Any Of Them. I Only Ever Write Concepts. And So I'm Always Referring To "mountains" Or "a City" Or "streets." But As To How They Look: I've Never Produced A Description Of A Landscape. That's Never Even Interested Me.