The idea that others saw in me one that was not the I whom I knew, one whom they alone could know, as they looked at me from without, with eyes that were not my own, eyes that conferred upon me an aspect destined to remain always foreign to me, although it was one that was in me, one that was my own to them (a "mine," that is to say, that was not for me!)—a life into which, although it was my own, I had no power to penetrate—this idea gave me no rest.

Whatever is a reality today, whatever you touch and believe in and that seems real for you today, is going to be, like the reality of yesterday, an illusion tomorrow.

In the sense, that is, that the author who created us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially to put us into a work of art. And this was a real crime, sir; because he who has had the luck to be born a character can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the writer, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to have extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders.

As soon as one is born, one starts dying.

I feel that my life is devoid of meaning and I no longer see any reason in the acts I perform or the words I say, and it astonishes me that other people can move about outside this nightmare of mine... that they can act and speak.

You don't know what it means to live the life that you could have lived, if an event over which you have no control, an unforeseeable circumstance, had not distracted and diverted you, and at times crushed you, as has happened to me.

...and here, in this if I always lose myself.

Porque la vida, por todas sus descaradas absurdidades, pequeñas y grandes, de que está felizmente llena, tiene el inestimable privilegio de poder prescindir de esta estupidísima verosimilitud, a la que el arte cree su deber prestar obediencia.Las absurdidades de la vida no tienen necesidad de parecer verosímiles, porque son verdaderas. Al contrario de las del arte, que, para parecer verdaderas, tienen necesidad de ser verosímiles. Y entonces, al ser verosímiles, ya no son absurdidades.

Whoever understands the game of life can no longer fool himself, but if you cannot fool yourself, you can no longer derive any pleasure or enjoyment from life. And so it goes, my work is full of compassion, bitter compassion for all those who fool themselves. But this compassion cannot help but be followed by ferocious derision of a destiny that condemns man to deception. And this succinctly is the reason for the bitterness of my art, and also my life.