“To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.”

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

To have been always what I am – and so changed from what I was.

Nothing is more real than nothing.

What do we do now, now that we are happy?

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.

But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

All life long, the same questions, the same answers.

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.

Sleep, delicious and profound, the very counterfeit of death.

Use your blood to paint. Keep painting until you faint. Keep painting until you die.

The day we see the truth and cease to speak is the day we begin to die.

Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth.

You are the true master of death, because the true master does not seek to run away from Death.

A mental health crises should not end in death.

Love is life, if it is not death.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.