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Favorite passages:
It seemed to us an embarras de richesses, and it was instead a different embarrassment, deeper and more essential: an embarrassment tied to an atrophy of ours, of our family, or our caste. What were we able to do with our hands?… Our hands were at once coarse and weak, regressive insensitive: the least trained part of our bodies. Having gone through the first fundamental experiences of play, they had learned to write, and that was all… If man is a maker, we were not men: we knew this and suffered from it. (p. 24)
Distilling is beautiful. First of all, because it is a slow, philosophic, and silent occupation, which keeps you busy but gives you time to think of other things, somewhat like riding a bike. (p. 57)
I thought that I ought to be less of a gentleman, indeed less inhibited and foolish, and that for the rest of my life I would regret that between myself and her there had been nothing but a few school and company memories… and finally, the way of a shipwrecked person tired of struggling lets himself sink straight to the bottom, I fell back on what was my dominant thought during those years: that the existing fiance and the laws of racial separation were only stupid alibis, and that my inability to approach a woman was a condemnation without appeal which would accompany me to my death, confining me to a life poisoned by envy and by abstract, sterile, and aimless desires. (p. 125)
This cell belongs to a brain, and it is my brain, the brain of the me who is writing; and the cell in question, and within it the atom in question, is in charge of my writing, in a gigantic minuscule game which nobody has yet described. It is that which at this instant, issuing out of a labyrinthine tangle of yeses and nos, makes my hand run along a certain path on the paper, mark it with these volutes that are signs: a double snap, up and down, between two levels of energy, guides this hand of mine to impress on the paper this dot, here, this one. (p. 233)
It seemed to us an embarras de richesses, and it was instead a different embarrassment, deeper and more essential: an embarrassment tied to an atrophy of ours, of our family, or our caste. What were we able to do with our hands?… Our hands were at once coarse and weak, regressive insensitive: the least trained part of our bodies. Having gone through the first fundamental experiences of play, they had learned to write, and that was all… If man is a maker, we were not men: we knew this and suffered from it. (p. 24)
Distilling is beautiful. First of all, because it is a slow, philosophic, and silent occupation, which keeps you busy but gives you time to think of other things, somewhat like riding a bike. (p. 57)
I thought that I ought to be less of a gentleman, indeed less inhibited and foolish, and that for the rest of my life I would regret that between myself and her there had been nothing but a few school and company memories… and finally, the way of a shipwrecked person tired of struggling lets himself sink straight to the bottom, I fell back on what was my dominant thought during those years: that the existing fiance and the laws of racial separation were only stupid alibis, and that my inability to approach a woman was a condemnation without appeal which would accompany me to my death, confining me to a life poisoned by envy and by abstract, sterile, and aimless desires. (p. 125)
This cell belongs to a brain, and it is my brain, the brain of the me who is writing; and the cell in question, and within it the atom in question, is in charge of my writing, in a gigantic minuscule game which nobody has yet described. It is that which at this instant, issuing out of a labyrinthine tangle of yeses and nos, makes my hand run along a certain path on the paper, mark it with these volutes that are signs: a double snap, up and down, between two levels of energy, guides this hand of mine to impress on the paper this dot, here, this one. (p. 233)