Read: 25 Feb — 15 Mar 2018
° The weak fear happiness itself. They can harm themselves on cotton wool. Sometimes they are wounded even by happiness.
° ...if the world, like the sea, had depths of a thousand fathoms, this was the kind of weird shadow which might be found hovering here and there at the bottom. It was a laugh which enabled me to catch a glimpse of the very nadir of adult life.
° One of my tragic flaws is the compulsion to add some sort of embellishment to every situation — a quality which has made people call me at times a liar — but I have almost never embellished in order to bring myself any advantage; it was rather that I had a strangulating fear of that cataclysmic change in the atmosphere the instant the flow of a conversation flagged, and even when I knew that it would later turn to my disadvantage, I frequently felt obliged to add, almost inadvertently, my word of embellishment, out of a desire to please born of my usual desperate mania for service. This may have been a twisted form of my weakness, an idiocy, but the habit it engendered was taken full advantage of by so-called honest citizens of the world.
° I was frightened even by God. I could not believe in His love, only in His punishment. Faith. That, I felt, was the act of facing the tribunal justice with one's head bowed to receive the scourge of God. I could believe in Hell, but it was impossible for me to believe in the existence of heaven.