I Did Not Find Him Absurd. I

Every Little Girl Knows About Love. It Is Only Her Capacity To Suffer Because Of It That Increases.

Only By Pursuing The Extremes In One's Nature, With All Its Contradictions, Appetites, Aversions, Rages, Can One Hope To Understand A Little - Oh, I Admit Only A Very Little - Of What Life Is About.

Writing Is Just Having A Sheet Of Paper, A Pen And Not A Shadow Of An Idea Of What You Are Going To Say.

I Shall Live Badly If I Do Not Write, And I Shall Write Badly If I Do Not Live.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.