Camp Concentration

Genius is an infinite capacity for pain.

Though opposition is a hopeless task, acquiescence would be worse.

Knowledge is devalued when it becomes too generally known

This is my journal. I can be candid here. Candidly, I could not be more miserable.

Hell is not merely preferable to heaven-it's the only clear notion of an afterlife-of a goal worth striving toward-that human imagination has been able to devise.

The fascination of Germany in this century is the fascination of the abomination. You go there to catch a whiff of the smoke that still hangs in the air.

No wonder the man wins all his battles: He doesn’t recognize defeat!

[...] Abandon controversy that I may consecrate my talents exclusively to the Muses. And my soul, then, to the Devil? No, though opposition is a hopeless task, acquiescence would be worse. Consider Youngerman's case: He acquiesced, he left well enough alone, he muzzled conscience. Did irony sustain him? Or the Muses? When you rise to deliver a commencement address and half the audience walks out, where is your lofty indifference then, O poet? And his last book-- so bad, so bad! But Youngerman at least knew the meaning of his silence. When I speak to R.M. the language itself seems to alter. I grasp at meanings and they flit away, like minnows in a mountain stream. Or, a better metaphor, it is like one of those secret doors that one used to see in horror movies. It appears to be part of the bookcase, but when the hidden spring is released it turns around and its reverse side is a rough stone face. Must try and develop that image. The last word on R.M.: We do not, and I fear we cannot, understand each other. I sometimes wonder if the reason isn't simply that he's very stupid.

The very highest thoughts, pierced with this dread, plummet to earth, snapping the branches of trees. The hunter comes upon it, not quite, it is not quite dead. A wing lifts, goes limp, and lifts again. Not quite, not quite dead.

There was nothing of interest in the anteroom but a book by Valery, which I began to browse through. Almost at once I came to the following passage, which was heavily underscored: Carried away by his ambition to be unique, guided by his ardor for omnipotence, the man of great mind has gone beyond all creations, all works, even his own lofty designs; while at the same time he has abandoned all tenderness for himself and all preference for his own wishes. In an instant he immolates his individuality. . . To this point its pride has led the mind, and here pride is consumed. . . . [The mind] . . . perceives itself as destitute and bare, reduced to the supreme poverty of being a force without an object. . . . He [the genius] exists without instincts, almost without images; and he no longer has an aim. He resembles nothing. Beside this passage, someone had scrawled in the margin: "The supreme genius has ceased at last to be human.

Behold! Behold the black, ungrainèd flesh, The jaw’s jeweled hinge that we can barely glimpse …