The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

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The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

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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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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.

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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.

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All life long, the same questions, the same answers.

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I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.

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Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.' You won't believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.

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Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

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Nothing is more real than nothing.

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