“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”

“What does a river know about this and what does a tree know?And I, who am no more than those, what do I know?Every time I look at things and think about what men think about them,I laugh like how a brook sounds cool on a stone.”

“Silence emerges from the sound of rain and spreads in a crescendo of gray monotony over the narrow street I contemplate. I’m sleeping while awake, standing by the window, leaning against it as against everything. I search in myself for the sensations I feel before these falling threads of darkly luminous water that stand out from the grimy building facades and especially from the open windows. And I don’t know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don’t know what to think or where I am.”

“If, on thinking this, I look up to see if reality can quench my thirst, I see inexpressive facades, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stones, bodies, ideas - all dead. All movements are one great standstill. Nothing means anything to me, not because it's unfamiliar but because I don't know what it is. The world has slipped away. And in the bottom of my soul - as the only reality of this moment - there's an intense and invisible grief, a sadness like the sound of someone crying in a dark room.”

“That’s why I read, as a stranger,My being as if it were pages.Not knowing what will comeAnd forgetting what has passed,I note in the margin of my reading What I thought I felt. Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?”God knows, because he wrote it.”

“I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.”

“I am the escaped one,After I was bornThey locked me up inside meBut I left. My soul seeks me, Through hills and valley,I hope my soulNever finds me.”