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.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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?
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
Better hope deferred than none.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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.
All has not been said and never will be.
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.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
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.
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