8 XII 1958 Lord, have pity on my sterility, rouse my absent spirit, help me in this extremity of abandon and numbness!
A spineless and demoralized angel, frozen in remorse of his fall.
Only one thing redeems me from the fear of my downfall and the will to escape from it.
Pity, the vice of kindness.
Pity or kindness as vice…
The impoliteness of being “profound”.
There was a time when, believing myself to be the most normal one who ever was, I became afraid, and spent a winter reading psychiatric books.
To live in eternal destitution, to beg at the door of each instant, to humiliate myself in order to breathe. One destitute of breath!
I proceed like the painters: I draw, I like to say, I write the outlines of a text; then I fill it out, I proceed by successive layers; this necessarily entails contradictions, incompatibilities, disparities; it is a risk to take, that I take.
But what does a coherent mind do? It sets out a definition and refuses to give it up; it violate the problem that it treats, it tortures it in any case; logic gains from it; life suffers from it. It too takes its risks.