I Avoid Literature Whenever Possible, Because Whenever

I Really Only Write About Inner Landscapes And Most People Don't See Them, Because They See Practically Nothing Within, Because They Think That Because It's Inside, It's Dark, And So They Don't See Anything. I Don't Think I've Ever Yet, In Any Of My Books, Described A Landscape. There's Really Nothing Of The Kind In Any Of Them. I Only Ever Write Concepts. And So I'm Always Referring To "mountains" Or "a City" Or "streets." But As To How They Look: I've Never Produced A Description Of A Landscape. That's Never Even Interested Me.

...we Ask: Why Suicide? We Search For Reasons, Causes, And So On.... We Follow The Course Of The Life He Has Now So Suddenly Terminated As Far Back As We Can. For Days We Are Preoccupied With The Question: Why Suicide? We Recollect Details. And Yet We Must Say That Everything In The Suicide's Life- For Now We Know That All His Life He Was A Suicide, Led A Suicide's Existence- Is Part Of The Cause, The Reason, For His Suicide.

The Anger And The Brutality Against Everything Can Readily From One Hour To The Next Be Transformed Into Its Opposite.

Those Who Live In The Country Get Idiotic In Time, Without Noticing It, For A While They Think It's Original And Good For Their Health, But Life In The Country Is Not Original At All, For Anyone Who Wasn't Born In And For The Country It Shows A Lack Of Taste And Is Only Harmful To Their Health. The People Who Go Walking In The Country Walk Right Into Their Own Funeral In The Country And At The Very Least They Lead A Grotesque Existence Which Leads Them First Into Idiocy, Then Into An Absurd Death.

Very Often We Write Down A Sentence Too Early, Then Another Too Late; What We Have To Do Is Write It Down At The Proper Time, Otherwise It's Lost.