Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

We are all born; some remain so.

For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.

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 blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.