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.
Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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.
Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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.
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.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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.
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.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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.
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.
So all things limp together for the only possible.
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