The limited circle is pure.

If I shall exist eternally, how shall I exist tomorrow?

I am on the hunt for constructions. I come into a room and find them whitely merging in a corner.

The purpose of a story is to be an axe that breaks up the ice within us.

The true way goes over a line that, rather than spanning heights, is hardly above the ground. It appears more decidedly to make one trip than to be walked along.

A man of action forced into a state of thought is unhappy until he can get out of it.

Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be better to say it sustains this kind of life? Which doesn't mean life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write - which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.