Even a fruitless task can edify the mysteries of indolence.
One must shake the scholarly pursuits as one would an infection or a companion who has outlived his use.
The impulse to collect artifacts and memories about us is a desire to erect a monument to our own recklessness; not so that we may silence this lurid activity, but so that we may lay our heads on its altar.
Expectation and hope are generally very stupid uses of one’s time.
Reminiscence is death a thousand times over.
Many a tried path has led to disaster, but only the untrodden road can render one’s misfortune truly exquisite.