After three days men grow weary, of a wench, a guest, and weather rainy.

I will sometimes feel this awful.

In two weeks, despite these notes, I shall no longer believe in what I am experiencing now. One must leave behind a trace of this journey which memory forgets. One must, when this is impossible, write or draw without responding to the romantic solicitations of pain, without enjoying suffering like music, tieing a pen to one's foot if need be, helping the doctors who can learn nothing from laziness.

I know what it's like when people go away. It's agony for a week, then painful for a week, then you begin to forget, and then it seems as it never happened, it happened to someone else, and you start shrugging. You say, dingo, it's life, that's the way the things are. Stupid things like that. As if you haven't really lost something for ever.

We've known for a long time that it was no longer possible to overturn this world, nor reshape it, nor head off its dangerous headlong rush. There's been one possible resistance: to not take it seriously. But I think our jokes have lost their power...All you get out of it is weariness and boredom.

Let me ask you outright, gentle reader, if there have not been hours, indeed whole days and weeks of your life, during which all your usual activities were painfully repugnant, and everything you believed in and valued seemed foolish and worthless?

Think of the inconvenience of vanishing as it were from your friends and, correspondents three times in one's natural life.

The tragically moderate weariness of the times, whose object is of no real interest to the heart, follows the pull of the spirit of the times without the least moderation and this spirit appears then as something wild and not, like a ghost in daylight, sparing mad at all, but quite pitiless, as the spirit of the always alive unwritten wilderness and the world of the dead.

Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel.

You don't get explanations in real life. You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.

The Three Wiseman:

The weather has been awful,
The countryside is dreary,
Marsh, jungle, rock; and echoes mock,
Calling our hope unlawful;
But a silly song can help along
Yours ever and sincerely:
At least we know for certain that we are three old sinners,
that this journey is much too long, that we want our dinners,
and miss our wives, our books, our dogs,
but have only the vaguest idea why we are what we are.
To discover how to be human now
Is the reason we follow this star.

I believe because it is absurd.

Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.

Funny, how just when you think life can’t possibly get any worse it suddenly does.