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

The morning’s recollection of the emptiness of the day before. Its anticipation of the emptiness of the day to come.

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

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.

You can learn more by going to the opera than you ever can by reading Emerson. Like that there are two sexes.

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?

What do any of us ever truly know?