But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Habit is a great deadener.
As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.