I decided to free myself from myself a long time ago.  The most important motive for the action was:  I really don’t like myself.  I happen to be unable to bear the idea of living with myself for an entire life.  I have often complained that I cannot get rid of myself.  I feel myself as a terrible burden.  I would like to be in a courageous, honorable, pure young man.  My person is untrue, unaesthetic, clumsy.  I know that death will destroy me entirely; the thought for me is the cause for keen despair; I can’t bear this thought for long.  I have lost the ability to breathe.  I feel as though a monster is pressing me from within.  My brain’s activity seems to have stopped.  My hands are clenched in animal fear.  I weep dry tears.  The institution of death is probably not fitting for many men; one should be able to find means and ways to circumvent death.  But dying is a trifle.  The man who is preparing for death must not think of death.

Mieze Maier

I’m still attending high school, but am more interested in theater and literature.  I read Wedekind, Rilke, and others.  Goethe also.  I don’t like Schiller and George.

My friend’s name is Mieze Maier.  She lives, with her companions, in an elegant four-room apartment, since her father, Markus Maier, left her a lot of money.  Her mother died ten years ago as a result of an operation on her stomach.  Her mother must have been beautiful.

Mieze Maier just became sixteen.  She had a big birthday celebration.  Many beautiful and wicked girls and a number of young men were invited.  Everyone was very silly.  People whispered in each other’s ears that Mieze was already sixteen.  Then they laughed...

Mieze Maier is beautiful.  Also smart.  Also talented.  Very flirtatious.  Graceful and slyly charming.  Sometimes unhappy.  She knows how to make many men sick, so that sorrow fills their eyes when they are awake, and they have smiles on their lips when they sleep.  And their hands are held tightly, close to their bodies...

She always had her favorites.  They are like dolls with whom she plays, until, one day, she becomes tired of them and casts them aside carelessly.  I know seven.  No one has remained in her favor as long as six weeks.  I am the eighth.

I know that my days are also numbered.  I too will be cast aside by this sixteen-year old thing—­still half child.  When I think about it, I am already ashamed and tormented within.  And yet...

We have not said to each other that we are in love, but we are very gentle with each other.  It happens like this: 

We met once.  It was by chance.  The day was grey with weariness.  Twilight lay over all things.  Yellow and red light came from a few houses.

We walked together.  Her eyes had a brilliance.  Sometimes she half covered them with her lids.  And she caught the looks of men in her eyes.  That must be a fine lust.