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.

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

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

What do any of us ever truly know?

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?

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