My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. […]. I'm two, and both keep their distance — Siamese twins that aren't attached.

All is worthwhile if the soul is not small.

In order to understand, I destroyed myself.

From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking, I’m now my thoughts and not I

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!