Once, Turner had himself lashed to the mast of a ship for several hours, during a furious storm, so that he could later paint the storm. Obviously, it was not the storm itself that Turner intended to paint. What he intended to paint was a representation of the storm. One's language is frequently imprecise in that manner, I have discovered.

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.

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.

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

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