What do any of us ever truly know?

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

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

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

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

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

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.