Was it really some other person I was so anxious to discover, when I did all of that looking, or was it only my own solitude that I could not abide?
Wandering through this endless nothingness. Once in a while, when I was not mad, I would turn poetic instead. I honestly did let myself think about things in such ways.
The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me. For instance I thought about them like that, also.
In a manner of speaking, I thought about them like that.
Actually I underlined that sentence in a book, named the Pensées, when I was in college.
Doubtless I underlined the sentence about wandering through an endless nothingness in someone else’s book, as well.
The cat that Pintoricchio put into the painting of Penelope weaving may have been gray, I have a feeling.
Once, I had a dream of fame.
Generally, even then, I was lonely.
Later today I will possibly masturbate.

— David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress