"This lamplit room at the centre of all, the thought or the memory of it will not last even a week.
Other perspectives will intrude, banishing and replacing the memories in the conventional and expected way. And thus this room is revealed to be no centre at all, but a periphery, a detour about which little can be said.
Or rather, say as much as you want, fill a notebook with reminiscences, but all the speculations and even the surest statements will be proved wrong, the questions stated wrongly, each one open to contradiction, liable to be reversed. If only it were true that nothing could be said, that it was useless to speak, rather we must wretchedly annunciate lies and idiocies from here to the grave. And yet, with our eyes and moods, and joys, are we not grasping at truth?
The answer returns: yes. They are small but perfect truths, seen and apprehended as such. With words i cast myself into the void but i emerge speechless, content to look and know."
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