The clouds thicken over the cloister and night gradually darkens the ledger stones bearing the moral virtues attributed to the dead. If someone here told me to write a book on morality, it would have a hundred pages and ninety-nine would be blank. On the last page, I should write: 'I recognize one duty, and that is to love.' And, as far as everything else is concerned, I say no. I say no with all my strength. The ledger stones tell me that this is useless, that life is 'col sol levante, col sol cadente.' But, I cannot see that my revolt loses by being useless, and I can feel what it gains.
Commit yourself completely. Then, show equal strength in accepting both yes and no.
An overwelming impulse to cast ourselves away and reject everything, to become nothing at all, utterly destroying what makes us what we are, offering the present only solitude and nothingness, and returning to the only platform where our destinies can suddenly be renewed. The temptation is a permanent one. Should we resist, or give way? Is it possible to live a monotonous, repetitive life, while perpetually haunted by the thought of a work to be created, or should we adjust our life to this work, follow the lightnening flash? It is my concern for beauty, for liberty, which causes me most anguish.
I ought not to have written: if the world were clear, art would not exist - but if the world seemed to me to have meaning, I should not write at all.