June 27, 1958
Melancholy is a regret from another world, but I have never known which world this was.
Even God would not know how to put a limit on my contradictions.
I have introduced the sigh into the economy of the intellect.
In concern for decency I have toned down my cries; without doing that I had been a subject of terror to others, not least of whom to myself.
I listen in myself to the appeals and the tearing of Chaos, to the extent that I can descend there, before being converted or degraded in universe…
Let’s attack reality at it root, let’s change the composition and the meaning of it.
X is so false and selfish that he is incapable of the least spontaneous movement. Everything in him is premeditation and plan: one could say that he breathes by calculation.
Tapping on an out of tune piano: waves of melancholy sink in me.
My article on Utopia, published in the July issue of the N.R.F., is so bad that I should just go to bed — from despair. — I cannot write without stimulants; and stimulants are forbidden to me. The café is the secret to everything.
Motionless vertigo, supernatural laziness.
To say a flashing no to all things, to contribute one’s best to the increase of general perplexity.
One cannot imagine two more different people than my mother and my father. I have not succeeded in neutralizing their irreducible characters in me; thus a double and irreconcilable heredity is balanced in my spirit.
Hatred without object, pure hatred, is a form of despair, perhaps the worst kind. But how can that be explained?
I owe the best and the worst of myself to my insomnia.
His out-dated smile.
X: an inanimate writer.