Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
So all things limp together for the only possible.
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.
Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
My mistakes are my life.
What was God doing with himself before the creation?
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.
My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
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.
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.
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