Man Is Nothing Else But What He

That God Does Not Exist, I Cannot Deny, That My Whole Being Cries Out For God I Cannot Forget.

My Eyes Feel All Soft, All Soft As Flesh. I'm Going To Sleep.

I Am Beginning To Believe That Nothing Can Ever Be Proved. These Are Honest Hypotheses Which Take The Facts Into Account: But I Sense So Definitely That They Come From Me, And That They Are Simply A Way Of Unifying My Own Knowledge. Not A Glimmer Comes From Rollebon's Side. Slow, Lazy, Sulky, The Facts Adapt Themselves To The Rigour Of The Order I Wish To Give Them; But It Remains Outside Of Them. I Have The Feeling Of Doing A Work Of Pure Imagination.

That’s What Existence Means: Draining One’s Own Self Dry Without The Sense Of Thirst.

To Read A Poem In January Is As Lovely As To Go For A Walk In June