Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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.
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
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.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.
I am interested in the shape of ideas even if I do not believe in them. There is a wonderful sentence in Augustine . . . "Do not despair: one of the thieves was saved; do not presume: one of the thieves was damned." That sentence had a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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