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.

That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

The essential is never to arrive anywhere, never to be anywhere. The essential is to go on squirming forever at the edge of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven a sporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits. I've swallowed three hooks and am still hungry. Hence the howls. What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but strech out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for eternity.

My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.

It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.