In fact one frequently seemed to gather all sorts of similar information about subjects one had less than profound interest in.

You will say that I am old and mad, was what Michaelangelo wrote, but I answer that there is no better way of being sane and free from anxiety than by being mad.

Once, I had a dream of fame. Generally, even then, I was lonely.

Is T.S. Eliot the only poet one can think of who could have spent a year on his own in Paris at twenty-three—and managed to have no sexual encounter whatsoever?

In fact one frequently seemed to gather all sorts of similar information about subjects one had less than profound interest in.

I also believe I met William Gaddis once. He did not look Italian.

Doubtless these are inconsequential perplexities. Still, inconsequential perplexities have now and again been known to become the fundamental mood of existence, one suspects.