I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?
For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.
But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.
Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.
I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.
In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.
