Talking like touching. Writing like punching somebody.

Can I love someone...and still think/fly? Love is flying, sown, floating. Thought is solitary flight, beating wings.

What, I ask, drives me to disorder? How can I diagnose myself? All I feel, most immediately, is the most anguished need for physical love and mental companionship -

Finally, the most grandiose result of the photographic enterprise is to give us the sense that we can hold the whole world in our heads – as an anthology of images. To collect photographs is to collect the world

You know that you can't make references to the Classics any longer and less and less to the English classics even.

I perceive value, I confer value, I create value, I even create — or guarantee — existence. Hence, my compulsion to make “lists.” The things (Beethoven’s music, movies, business firms) won’t exist unless I signify my interest in them by at least noting down their names. Nothing exists unless I maintain it (by my interest, or my potential interest). This is an ultimate, mostly subliminal anxiety. Hence, I must remain always, both in principle + actively, interested in everything. Taking all of knowledge as my province.

The culture-heroes of our liberal bourgeois civilisation are ant-liberal and ant-bourgeois . . .