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?

What do any of us ever truly know?

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

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

Was it really some other person I was so anxious to discover...or was it only my own solitude that I could not abide?

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