It Was Always My Intention That The

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

My Father Was Temperamentally Nervous And Obsessively Religious—to The Point Of Psychoneurosis. From Him I Inherited The Seeds Of Madness. The Angels Of Fear, Sorrow, And Death Stood By My Side Since The Day I Was Born.

One Can Easily Tell That The Creator Of The Paintings In The Sistine Chapel Was Above All A Sculptor

There Is A Battle That Goes On Between Men And Women. Many People Call It Love.

The Notes I Have Made Are Not A Diary In The Ordinary Sense, But Partly Lengthy Records Of My Spiritual Experiences, And Partly Poems In Prose.