I Write And That Way Rid Myself

Who Has Not Asked Himself At Some Time Or Other: Am I A Monster Or Is This What It Means To Be A Person?

Do Not Mourn The Dead. They Know What They Are Doing.

I Have Grown Weary Of Literature: Silence Alone Comforts Me. If I Continue To Write, It’s Because I Have Nothing More To Accomplish In This World Except To Wait For Death. Searching For The Word In Darkness. Any Little Success Invades Me And Puts Me In Full View Of Everyone. I Long To Wallow In The Mud. I Can Scarcely Control My Need For Self-abasement, My Craving For Licentiousness And Debauchery. Sin Tempts Me, Forbidden Pleasures Lure Me. I Want To Be Both Pig And Hen, Then Kill Them And Drink Their Blood.

Ignorance Of The Law Of Irreducibility Was No Excuse. I Could No Longer Excuse Myself With The Claim That I Didn't Know The Law -- For Knowledge Of Self And Of The World Is The Law That, Even Though Unattainable, Cannot Be Broken, And No One Can Excuse Himself By Saying That He Doesn't Know It. . . . The Renewed Originality Of The Sin Is This: I Have To Carry Out My Unknowing, I Shall Be Sinning Originally Against Life.

For One Has The Right To Shout. So, I Am Shouting.