I Don’t Want To Be Anything Special.

Such Words As 'god' And 'death' And 'suffering' And 'eternity' Are Best Forgotten. We Have To Become As Simple And As Wordless As The Growing Corn Or The Falling Rain. We Must Just Be.

If One Burdens The Future With One's Worries, It Cannot Grow Organically. I Am Filled With Confidence, Not That I Shall Succeed In Worldly Things, But That Even When Things Go Badly For Me I Shall Still Find Life Good And Worth Living.

Slowly But Surely I Have Been Soaking Rilke Up These Last Few Months: The Man, His Work And His Life. And That Is Probably The Only Right Way With Literature, With Study, With People Or With Anything Else: To Let It All Soak In, To Let It All Mature Slowly Inside You Until It Has Become A Part Of Yourself. That, Too, Is A Growing Process. Everything Is A Growing Process. And In Between, Emotions And Sensations That Strike You Like Lightning. But Still The Most Important Thing Is The Organic Process Of Growing.

The Fact Is I Don't Lead A Simple Enough Inner Life. I Indulge In Excesses, Bacchanalia Of The Spirit. Perhaps I Identify Too Much With Everything I Read And Study. Someone Like Dostoevsky Still Shatters Me.

Life Cannot Be Captured In A Few Axioms. And That Is Just What I Keep Trying To Do. But It Won't Work, For Life Is Full Of Endless Nuances And Cannot Be Captured In Just A Few Formulae.