from the book of disquiet
476
It will seem to many that my diary, written just for me, is too artificial. But it’s only natural for me to be artificial. How else can I amuse myself except by carefully recording these mental notes? Though I’m not very careful about how I record them. In fact I jot them down in no particular order and with no special care. The refined language of my prose is the language in which I naturally think.
For me the outer world is an inner reality. I feel this not in some metaphysical way but with the senses normally used to grasp reality.
Yesterday’s frivolity is a nostalgia that gnaws at my life today.
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