I know nothing and my heart aches.
I've never known if it was my sensibility that was too much for my intelligence, or my intelligence that was too much for my sensibility. I've always been late, I'm not sure if for the former or for the latter, or perhaps for both, or perhaps it was the third thing that was late.
It's human to want what we need, and it's human to desire what we don't need but find desirable.
To write is to objectify dreams, to create an outer world as a material reward [?] of our nature as creators. To publish is to give this outer world to others; but what for, if the outer world common to us and to them is the ‘real' outer world, the one made of visible and tangible matter? What do others have to do with the universe that's in me?
It requires prodigious intelligence to be reduced to anguish by a day of lowering skies.
Those of us who are curious about life, let us peer out of every door and window, in the weary foreknowledge that we will see nothing new or beautiful.