#the book of disquiet

I do not even know whether I am the one living it or if my life is living me.

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Vague dreams, confusing lights, perplexing landscapes—that is what remains in my soul after all my journeying. I have

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True experience consists in reducing one’s contact with reality whilst at the same time intensifying one’s analysis of

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The basest of all human needs is the need to confide, to confess. It is the soul’s need to go outside itself.

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Every day things happen in the world that can’t be explained by any law of things we know. Every day they’re mentioned

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To externalize impressions is more a way of persuading ourselves that we have them rather than actually having them.

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The art of dreaming is difficult, because it’s an art of passivity, in which we concentrate our efforts on avoiding all

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Freedom means rest, artistic achievement, the intellectual fulfillment of my being.

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Art is an act of isolation.

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Which of us, turning to look back down the road along which there is no return, could say that we had walked that road as

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A cup of coffee, a cigarette and my dreams can substitute quite well for the universe and its stars, for work, love, and

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It is not tedium that one feels. It is not grief. It is not even tiredness that one feels. It is the desire to go to

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Life is an experimental journey undertaken involuntarily. It is a journey of the spirit through the material world and, since

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When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of

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If there is one thing I loathe, it’s a reformer. A reformer is a man who sees the superficial ills of the world and

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For everything that exists I feel a visual affection, an intellectual fondness –

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The trivialities natural to life, the insignificancies of the normal and vulgar, lie like a layer of dust, tracing a blurred,...

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For the aesthete, tragedies are interesting to observe, but uncomfortable to experience.

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If I hear myself speaking out loud, the ears with which I hear myself speaking out loud do not listen to me in the same way

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I loathe the happiness of all these people who don’t know they’re unhappy. Their true life is vegetative, their sufferings

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I still haven’t managed not to feel the pain of my solitude. It is so difficult to achieve the distinction of spirit that

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My life: a tragedy booed off the stage by the gods after only the first act. Friends: none. Just a few acquaintances who

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I enjoy using words. Or rather: I enjoy making words work. For me words are tangible bodies, visible sirens, sensualities

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I’ve always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself.

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