You Can't Think On Purpose

Modern Man-whether In The Womb Of The Masses, Or With His Workmates, Or With His Family, Or Alone-can Never For One Moment Forget That He Is Living In A World In Which He Is A Means And Whose End Is Not His Business.

Yes, One Uses What One Knows, But Autobiography Means Something Else. I Should Never Be Able To Write A Real Autobiography; I Always End By Falsifying And Fictionalizing—i’m A Liar, In Fact. That Means I’m A Novelist, After All. I Write About What I Know.

The Less One Notices Happiness, The Greater It Is.

I Like To Compare My Method With That Of Painters Centuries Ago, Proceeding From Layer To Layer.

...my Boredom Might Be Described As A Malady Affecting External Objects And Consisting Of A Withering Process; An Almost Instantaneous Loss Of Vitality--just As Though One Saw A Flower Change In A Few Seconds From A Bud To Decay And Dust.