Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
The essential doesn’t change.
Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.
Watt’s concern, deep as it appeared, was not after all what the figure was, in reality, but with what the figure appeared to be, in reality.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation – Time.
Lick your neighbor as yourself!
Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher’s regular, what normal woman wants affection?
Love requited is a short circuit.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m in my right mind. Then it passes off and I’m as intelligent as ever.
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
I gave up before birth.
I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.