On The Floor, And Hanging On To

I Never Reread What I've Written. I'm Far Too Afraid To Feel Ashamed Of What I've Done.

I Confess That I Have Not Cleared A Path Through All Seven Hundred Pages, I Confess To Having Examined Only Bits And Pieces, And Yet I Know What It Is, With That Bold And Legitimate Certainty With Which We Assert Our Knowledge Of A City, Without Ever Having Been Rewarded With The Intimacy Of All The Many Streets It Includes.

I Will Pause To Consider This Eternity From Which The Subsequent Ones Derive.

That Is What Always Happens: We Never Know Whether We Are Victors Or Whether We Are Defeated.

I Foresee That Man Will Resign Himself Each Day To More Atrocious Undertakings; Soon There Will Be No One But Warriors And Brigands; I Give Them This Counsel: The Author Of An Atrocious Undertaking Ought To Imagine That He Has Already Accomplished It, Ought To Impose Upon Himself A Future As Irrevocable As The Past.