I am still reading Wittgenstein’s Culture and Value, a book filled with small impeccable gems. What a thing to leave after one is gone: journals filled with impeccable gems written over a lifetime. One does not know where to begin when quoting it.
Kleinst wrote somewhere that what the poet would most of all like to be able to do would be to convey thoughts by themselves without words. (What a strange admission.)
I really do think with my pen, because my head often knows nothing about what I am writing.
Now it is time to leave the quiet place and go back home.