The Journal Is Not Essentially A Confession, A Story About Oneself. It Is A Memorial. What Does The Writer Have To Remember? Himself, Who He Is When He Is Not Writing, When He Is Living His Daily Life, When He Is Alive And Real, And Not Dying And Without Truth.
A Writer Who Writes, ''i Am Alone''... Can Be Considered Rather Comical. It Is Comical For A Man To Recognize His Solitude By Addressing A Reader And By Using Methods That Prevent The Individual From Being Alone. The Word Alone Is Just As General As The Word Bread. To Pronounce It Is To Summon To Oneself The Presence Of Everything The Word Excludes.
Lovers Of Painting And Lovers Of Music Are People Who Openly Display Their Preference Like A Delectable Ailment That Isolates Them And Makes Them Proud.
What If What Has Been Said One Time Not Only Does Not Cease To Be Said But Always Recommences, And Not Only Recommences But Also Imposes Upon Us The Idea That Nothing Has Ever Truly Begun, Having From The Beginning Begun By Beginning Again.
A Writer Never Reads His Work. For Him, It Is The Unreadable, A Secret, And He Cannot Remain Face To Face With It. A Secret, Because He Is Separated From It.
The Less Manifest The Work, The Stronger: As Though A Secret Law Demanded It Always Be Hidden In What It Shows, Thus Showing What Must Remain Hidden, Only Showing It, In The End, By Dissimulation.
My Being Subsists Only From A Supreme Point Of View Which Is Precisely Incompatible With My Point Of View. The Perspective In Which I Fade Away For My Eyes Restores Me As A Complete Image For The Unreal Eye To Which I Deny All Images. A Complete Image With Reference To A World Devoid Of Image Which Imagines Me In The Absence Of Any Imaginable Figure. The Being Of A Nonbeing Of Which I Am The Infinitely Small Negation Which It Instigates As Its Profound Harmony. In The Night Shall I Become The Universe?
There Is Between Sleep And Us Something Like A Pact, A Treaty With No Secret Clauses, And According To This Convention It Is Agreed That, Far From Being A Dangerous, Bewitching Force, Sleep Will Become Domesticated And Serve As An Instrument Of Our Power To Act. We Surrender To Sleep, But In The Way That The Master Entrusts Himself To The Slave Who Serves Him.
As Reason Returned To Me, Memory Came With It, And I Saw That Even On The Worst Days, When I Thought I Was Utterly And Completely Miserable, I Was Nevertheless, And Nearly All The Time, Extremely Happy. That Gave Me Something To Think About. The Discovery Was Not A Pleasant One. It Seemed To Me That I Was Losing A Great Deal. I Asked Myself, Wasn't I Sad, Hadn't I Felt My Life Breaking Up? Yes, That Had Been True; But Each Minute, When I Stayed Without Moving In A Corner Of The Room, The Cool Of The Night And The Stability Of The Ground Made Me Breathe And Rest On Gladness.
The Disaster... Is What Escapes The Very Possibility Of Experience—it Is The Limit Of Writing. This Must Be Repeated: The Disaster De-scribes.
