"I want to weep, but I cannot, because I feel so much pain in my soul that I am afraid for myself. I feel pain. My soul is sick. My sickness is of the soul and not of the mind. I know what I need in order to become well again. My sickness is too great for me to be cured of it soon. I am incurable. My soul is sick. I am poor. I am a destitute. I an unhappy. I am horrible. I know that everyone will suffer when they read these lines, because I know that people will feel me."
The Diary of Vaslav Nijisnky. On Life. Page 145.
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