Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
For a long time I found the celebrities of modern painting and poetry ridiculous. I loved absurd pictures, fanlights, stage scenery, mountebanks backcloths, inn-signs, cheap colored prints; unfashionable literature, church Latin, pornographic books badly spelt, grandmothers novels, fairy stories, little books for children, old operas, empty refrains, simple rhythms.
I is another.
Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.
The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.
I saw that all beings are fated to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting some force, an enervation. Morality is the weakness of the brain.
I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.