Character: Harry Haller. Page 2

Never, it seemed to me, mere life had not caused such pain, as at this hour.

Later, Hermine told me a remarkable thing. She said that after the conversation, Pablo told her about me so she carefully treated this man, he's, like, so unhappy. And when she asked what brought him to that conclusion, he said, "poor, Poor fellow. Look at his eyes! Unable to laugh."

And you know, Hermine, although the libels already can't make me mad, sometimes I get from them is sad. Two-thirds of my countrymen read Newspapers of this kind, read every morning and every evening, these words, of people every day treat, teach, incite, make unhappy and angry, and the purpose and end of it all - war again, the next coming war, which will probably be even worse than this.

Here in me lights up a wild desire for strong feelings, the " wow " experience, a furious anger at the dull, shallow, standardized and sterilized life, the furious need to smash something to pieces, the shop, for example, a Cathedral or myself, to make some kind of dashing folly, rip off the wigs with any respectable idols, to supply any rebellious students coveted tickets to Hamburg, defile the girl, or to wring the neck of several members of the bourgeois lifestyle. After all, that's what I hated and cursed irreconcilable than the other, is contentment, is health, this idealism, this blagodarenie the optimism of the bourgeois, that prosperity is just mediocre, normal, average.

True humor begins when a man ceases to take himself seriously.

To live a full life is possible only at the cost of his own "I".

When one soul and one blood agree two sworn enemy, life is no good...

Looking over the ruins of his life blurred sense, suffered from what is on view is meaningless, lived in that crazy, secretly hoped for revelation and closeness to God even among the recent confusion and chaos?

I live a little without joy and without pain, to breathe sluggish and fresh nosnost so-called good days, how childish my soul is filled with a hopeless yearning, and I toss the rusty lyre of thanksgiving in the happy sleepy face God's pleasure, the heat of the most ferocious pain I mile, what is a healthy room temperature.

Life was disgustingly bitter taste.

Morning yawned already through the Windows, the leaden rainy winter day.

Suicide is stupidity, cowardice and baseness, that inglorious, ignominious exit, the most shameful way out of this mill of misery.