Nov. 18, 1959
Afternoon sleep. On waking, for a second I had felt what seemed like death. It was like the brilliant illumination of a cadaver.
If every day I had the courage to yell for a quarter of an hour, I would enjoy perfect equilibrium.
All my “writings” are only, in the end, exercises in anti-utopia.
Whoever assures me that he knows no resentment, I am always tempted to slap him in the face, to show him that he is mistaken.
On the whole, life is an extraordinary thing.