Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.

And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.

Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.

The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).