One need only shut oneself in a closet and begin to think of the fact of one’s being there, of one’s queer bodily shape in the darkness (a thing to make children scream at, as Stevenson says), of one’s fantastic character and all, to have the wonder steal over the detail as much as over the general fact of being, and to see that it is only familiarity that blunts it. Not only that anything should be, but that this very thing should be, is mysterious! Philosophy stares, but brings no reasoned solution, for from nothing to being there is no logical bridge.
A: I am not one of those people who sit thinking while holding an inky pen, and even less one of those people who give themselves over to their passions while sitting on a chair and staring at a piece of paper. My writing annoys me and I am ashamed of it. For me, writing is an urgent and embarrassing need - and to talk about it, even in the form of a parable, disgusts me.
B: So why do you write? - A: To be quite honest with you, my friend, I have yet to discover any other way of getting rid of my thoughts. - B: But why do you want to get rid of them?- A: Why do I want to? Do I want to? I have to.