28th January 2008
I have, God knows, not the discipline, this forced drive reduction, the false victory of his own neurosis reached, such as a Thomas Mann I do not shy away the abysmal evil, destructive passion and pour over not my body in the morning with torrents of cold water. Thomas Mann was really an artist? Has not already been said, a certain small relaxed Prague writer once that you can stay away from the sufferings of life that is left us? But perhaps this very holding back is the only suffering that would avoid possible? The only way that it applies to tread, to get rid of his temptations is that of succumbing to them.
And yet I am used to pain and suffering of this frail-portrait, a dark family recognize the obstacles and hardships, with all the quarrels and invested in chains that lost citizens, which the narrow life decency not really, he nevertheless intimately to love desired. A sad concept! In our grave abandoned heart has infected a longing, a longing for the one which there was, strictly speaking, is never-never give up.
And yet I have no regrets, although I remain in a kind of dissatisfaction, in an agony all reasonable living towards, and the time is doing in my slightly agitated heart work their hard stroke - low blow for blow on an anvil called life.
I'm ecstatic, inflamed with ardent love of all that is strange and sick. From each flower I smell the breath of the Aides and would dry up like a spring, as I watched the beauty resonates with eyes ...
