Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.