I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.

Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.

What do we do now, now that we are happy?

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?

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