Enough to know no knowing.

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.

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.

Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.

I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.