“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 pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

I gave up before birth.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

Fail, fail again, fail better.

I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.

Birth was the death of him.

In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher’s regular, what normal woman wants affection?

Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.