My heart filled with emotion, but I was in such anguish that the tears would not come.
She was so pitiful, so terribly pitiful — no, we were both pitiful. The tears would not stop.
God killed me, and only after He had made me into someone entirely different from the person I had been, did he call me back to life.
Nor, indeed, have the scars of my past healed.
As for love... no, having once written that word I can write nothing more.
My words seemed horrible even to myself, but they could not be stopped, as if they had an existence of their own.
A sensation of helplessness, as if it were utterly impossible to go on living.
A terrible emotion — shall I call it an apprehension — wrings my heart only to release it, makes my pulse falter, and chokes my breath.
The more I let my thoughts run along such lines the bitterer my life seems.
I felt at an utter loss what to do with myself.
A sensation of burning to death.
What a beautiful, wonderful color harmony is, I thought to myself, rather surprised.
Philosophy? Lies. Principles? Lies. Ideals? Lies. Order? Lies. Sincerity? Truth? Purity? All lies.
That too is somebody's child. It is alive.
Logic, inevitably, is the love of logic. It is not the love for living human beings.
Learning is another name for vanity. It is the effort of human beings not to be human beings.
A hand like a dahlia blossom, a pure white hand, mounted on a stand. But if you looked at it carefully you could tell how this pure white, delicate hand, with whorl-less fingers and unmarked palms, expressed so pitifully that even the beholder was stabbed with pain, the shame intense enough to make Venus to stop her breath.
Please forgive me. Just this once, please forgive me.
I am not putting on an act. Absolutely not. I beg it of you. I feel as if I will die of shame.
Addiction is perhaps a sickness of the spirit.
His drinking everyday must be only in the hope of death.
Oh, life is too painful, the reality that confirms the universal belief that it is best not to be born.
Won't you shove aside the morality that blocks you?
Man was born for love and revolution.
There was no limit — and no use — to my tears.
The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive — those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.
Why is physical love bad and spiritual love good? I don't understand.
My tears were bitter, like tears of shame over a humiliation.
I drink out of desperation. Life is too dreary to endure. The misery, loneliness, crampedness — they're heartbreaking.
The face of a victim. A precious victim.
The sad, sad accomplishment of love.
I had to forget my family. I had to oppose my father's blood. I had to reject my mother's gentleness. I had to be cold to my sister.
