I gave up before birth.

Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?