I thought today, February 20, 1958, of the state of putrefaction of my dead friends and my father, and I dreamed of my own putrefaction.
Work alone could save me, but work I cannot. My will was achieved upon my birth. Infinite, chimerical projects, out of proportion to my capacities.
Something in me cripples me, has always crippled me. A wicked principle consubstantial with my blood and my spirit.
There is not a single subject that deserves more than a few moment’s attention toward it. To react against this certitude, I have attempted to transform all of my ideas into manias; it was the one way to make them persist — before my eyes and my … mind.
I return to Chaos by the simple play of my physiology. Tearing of entrails! sketch of a particularly special theology.
I am not from here; condition of exile in oneself; not a single part of me is at home — absolute alienation from whatever that may be.
The lost paradise — my obsession each instant.
What would I be, what would I do without clouds? I pass the clearest moments of my time watching them pass.