Every sign by itself seems dead. What gives it life?--In use it is alive. Is life breathed into it there?--Or is the use its life?

Uttering a word is like striking a note on the keyboard of the imagination.

What is left over if I subtract the fact that my arms goes up from the fact that I raise my arm?

I'm doing philosophy like an old woman, first I'm looking for my pencil, then I'm looking for my glasses, then I'm looking for my pencil again.

We must do away with all explanation, and description alone must take its place.

When one is frightened of the truth then it is never the whole truth that one has an inkling of.

Is my understanding only blindness to my own lack of understanding? It often seems so to me.