I had three lives: one during the day, one at night, and the last in a drawer in my room in a small book of notes.

There is no complete life. There are only fragments.

A satanic happiness follows.

Still, anything can be endured if all humanity is watching.

Events need their invitation, dissolutions their start.

My life is a parade of cravings.

Great faces can not be explained.

The more clearly one sees this world,the more one is obliged to pretend it does not exist.

Passion, energy, lies: these are what life admires.

She has a narrow mouth, cast down at the corners, weighted there by the sourness of knowledge.

One is seduced and battered in turn.

Dream and work.

Pure masculinity, which I have been exposed to a lot in life, is tedious and inadequate.

A name is a destiny. It is the first of all poems. Even after death it keeps its power.

It is belief as much as anything that allows one to cling to a wall.

Hope but not enthusiasm is the proper state for the writer.

She has small breasts and large nipples. Also, as she herself says, a rather large behind. Her father has three secretaries. Hamburg is close to the sea.

Dreams and work.

We are each of us an eventual tragedy.

And he reads to them, as he does every night, as if watering them, as if turning the earth at their feet.