One Does What One Is; One Becomes

The Thought Is Not Something That Observes An Inner Event, But, Rather It Is This Inner Event Itself. We Do Not Reflect On Something, But, Rather, Something Thinks Itself In Us.

... The Novel Is Called Upon Like No Other Art Form To Incorporate The Intellectual Content Of An Age.

I Am Not Only Convinced That What I Say Is False, But Also That What One Might Say Against It Is False. Despite This, One Must Begin To Talk About It. In Such A Case The Truth Lies Not In The Middle, But Rather All Around, Like A Sack, Which, With Each New Opinion One Stuffs Into It, Changes Its Form, And Becomes More And More Firm.

... The Structure Of A Page Of Good Prose Is, Analyzed Logically, Not Something Frozen But The Vibrating Of A Bridge, Which Changes With Every Step One Takes On It.

Life Is To Blame For Everything.