I have read so many books. And yet, like most Autodidacts, I am never quite sure of what I have gained from them. There are days when I feel I have been able to grasp all there is know in one single gaze, as if invisible branches suddenly spring out of no where, weaving together all the disparate strands of my reading. And then suddenly the meaning escapes, the essence evaporates and no matter how often I reread the same lines they seem to flee ever further with each subsequent reading and I see myself as some mad old fool who thinks her stomach is full because she's been reading the menu.

I am going to die, but that is of no importance.

Talent consists not in inventing shapes but in causing those that were invisible to emerge.

Levin delights in the forgetfulness that movement brings, where the pleasure of doing is marvellously foreign to the striving of the will.

People think that children don't know anything. It's enough to make you wonder if grownups were ever children once upon a time.

To beauty, all is forgiven, even vulgarity. Intelligence no longer seems an adequate compensation for things.

boredom was born on a day of uniformity.