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

Once, Turner had himself lashed to the mast of a ship for several hours, during a furious storm, so that he could later paint the storm. Obviously, it was not the storm itself that Turner intended to paint. What he intended to paint was a representation of the storm. One's language is frequently imprecise in that manner, I have discovered.

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

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?

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

What do any of us ever truly know?

Can Protagonist think of a single film that interests him as much as the three-hundredth best book he ever read?