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

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

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.

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

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

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?