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does one not write books precisely to conceal what lies within us?
Every profound thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood.
Am I another? A stranger to myself? Sprung from myself? A wrestler who subdued himself too often? Turned his own strength against himself too often, checked and wounded by his own victory?
No longer friends, but – what shall I call them? – they are the ghosts of friends which at my heart and window knock at night, which gaze on me and say: ‘were we once friends?’ –
de omnibus dubitandum: everything is to be doubted (Descartes).
