To be perfectly honest with you, I think it’s reckless to love and trust another person. It’s clearly foolhardy. I’d like it very much if the many daredevils who go ahead anyway enjoyed this book.
It’s like the people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.
I suffer from life and from other people. I can’t look at reality face to face. Even the sun discourages and depresses me. Only at night and all alone, withdrawn, forgotten and lost, with no connection to anything real or useful — only then do I find myself and feel comforted.
I want to go to a bookstore and sit there and read and then have a boy walk up to me and comment on the book I’m reading and then he’ll sit down with me and talk to me about it and then we’ll fall in love and get married and read books together like is that too much to ask
I’ve always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I’m not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
