2 August 1957 Suicide of E.: an immense abyss opens itself in my past. A thousand exquisite and agonizing memories come out.
She so loved ruin! And yet she killed herself to escape it.
If I will have seen through a tenth of my projects, then I will be by far the most prolific writer ever. To my misfortune or to my happiness, I am always much more attached to what is possible than to what is reality, and nothing is stranger to my nature than accomplishment. I have delved in the least detail into all that I have never done. I have gone to the extremity of the potential.