If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
Better hope deferred than none.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
All this business of a labour to accomplish, before I can end, of words to say, a truth to recover, in order to say it, before I can end, of an imposed task, once known, long neglected, finally forgotten, to perform, before I can be done with speaking, done with listening, I invented it all, in the hope it would console me, help me to go on, allow me to think of myself as somewhere on a road, moving, between a beginning and an end, gaining ground, losing ground, getting lost, but somehow in the long run making headway.
What was God doing with himself before the creation?
James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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