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

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.

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?

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.