The Study Of Sickness Is

Everything Is Ridiculous If One Thinks Of Death

The Only Friends I Have Are The Dead Who Have Bequeathed Their Writings To Me — I Have No Others.

Everyone Is A Virtuoso On His Own Instrument, But Together They Add Up To An Intolerable Cacophony.

Women Were Like Rivers, Their Banks Were Unreachable, The Night Often Rang With The Cries Of The Drowned.

We Must Allow Ourselves To Think, We Must Dare To Think, Even Though We Fail. It Is In The Nature Of Things That We Always Fail, Because We Suddenly Find It Impossible To Order Our Thoughts, Because The Process Of Thinking Requires Us To Consider Every Thought There Is, Every Possible Thought. Fundamentally We Have Always Failed, Like All The Others, Whoever They Were, Even The Greatest Minds. At Some Point, They Suddenly Failed And Their System Collapsed, As Is Proved By Their Writings, Which We Admire Because They Venture Farthest Into Failure. To Think Is To Fail, I Thought.