What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.

The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

I'll tickle his catastrophe.

Masturbation! The amazing availability of it!

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. Paintings of Moreau are paintings of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom; Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.