I Am Not Sure That I Exist,

There Is No Intellectual Exercise Which Is Not Ultimately Useless.

We Forget That We Are All Dead Men Conversing With Dead Men.

The Art Of Writing Is Mysterious, The Opinions We Hold Are Ephemeral.

A System Is Nothing More Than The Subordination Of All Aspects Of The Universe To Any One Of Such Aspects.

The Exercise Of Letters Is Sometimes Linked To The Ambition To Construct An Absolute Book, A Book Of Books That Includes The Others Like A Platonic Archetype, An Object Whose Virtues Are Not Diminished By The Passage Of Time.