If This Is What You Came For,

My Job Is Unbearable To Me Because It Conflicts With My Only Desire And My Only Calling, Which Is Literature. Since I Am Nothing But Literature And Can And Want To Be Nothing Else, My Job Will Never Take Possession Of Me, It May, However, Shatter Me Completely, And This Is By No Means A Remote Possibility.

How Pathetically Scanty My Self-knowledge Is Compared With, Say, My Knowledge Of My Room. There Is No Such Thing As Observation Of The Inner World, As There Is Of The Outer World.

True Undoubting Is The Teacher's Part, Continual Undoubting The Part Of The Pupil.

In A Certain Sense The Good Is Comfortless.

Writing Is A Sweet, Wonderful Reward.