Consistency for me is everything.
There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.
When you're winning games, everyone thinks everything the manager says and does is fantastic. Then it goes the other way, and those earlier criticisms of players can backfire.
Memory belongs to the imagination. Human memory is not like a computer which records things; it is part of the imaginative process, on the same terms as invention.
The true friends of the people are neither revolutionaries, nor innovators, but traditionalists.
Because we are living in a culture increasingly dominated by fear where many feel blocked.