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

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

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?

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

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

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