Even if I wanted to create .....

The only true art is that of construction. But the present-day milieu makes it impossible for constructive qualities to appear in the human spirit.

That’s why science developed. Machines are the only things today in which there’s construction; mathematical proofs are the only arguments with a chain of logic.

Creativity needs a prop, the crutch of reality.

Art is a science…

It suffers rhythmically.

I can’t read, for my hypercritical sensibility notices only flaws, imperfections, things that could be improved. I can’t dream, for my dreams are so vivid that I compare them with reality and quickly realize they’re unreal, hence without value. I can’t enjoy innocently gazing at people and things, for my longing to dig deeper is inexorable, and since my interest can’t exist without this longing, it must either die at its hands or wither [on its own]. I can’t be satisfied by metaphysical speculation, for I know all too well (from my own experience) that all systems are defensible and intellectually possible, and to enjoy the intellectual art of constructing systems, I would have to be able to forget that the goal of metaphysical speculation is the search for truth. A happy past in whose remembrance I would also be happy, with nothing in the present that would cheer or even interest me, with no dream or possibility of a future that could be any different from this present or have a past other than this past! – here lies my life, a conscious ghost of a paradise I never knew, a stillborn corpse of my unrealized hopes.

Happy those who suffer as unified selves – whom anxiety alters but doesn’t divide, who believe at least in unbelief, and who can sit in the sun without mental reservations!