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If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.

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All has not been said and never will be.
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Talk Voice Word
Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
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Friendship Human Solitude
To restore silence is the role of objects.
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If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead. That’s the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
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Death Enjoyment Myself
Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Destiny Fate Man Myself
With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.
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Alone Darkness Feeling Myself
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
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Alcohol Grudge Whiskey
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.
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People are bloody ignorant apes.
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If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
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Love Myself Relationship Yourself
Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher’s regular, what normal woman wants affection?
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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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Desert Lonely Love Man

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