There are certain things, no matter what, you have to keep inside.
You are free and that is why you are lost.
Practically the whole human race is hypnotized because it thinks what somebody else told it to think.
Maybe it’s not in the perfection of life that things make sense, but in the chaos.
I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.
The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only at night.
Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant — because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax — the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies.
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.
This tremendous feel I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this feel, without tearing myself to pieces.
I was twenty-one at the time, about to turn twenty-two. No prospect of graduating soon, and yet no reason to quit school. Caught in the most curiously depressing circumstances. For months I’d been stuck, unable to take one step in any new direction. The world kept moving on; I alone was at a standstill. In the autumn, everything took a desolate cast, the colors swiftly fading before my eyes. The sunlight, the smell of the grass, the faintest patter of rain, everything got on my nerves. How many times did I dream of catching a train at night?
Once you pass a certain age, life becomes nothing more than a process of continual loss. Things that are important to your life begin to slip out of your grasp, one after another, like a comb losing teeth. And the only things that come to take their place are worthless imitations.
You will exist, right there.
An eternal suspension