I began by groping my way blindly through the systems of Descartes and Spinoza. These sometimes bore me up to lofty heights, out into the infinite: I would see the earth like an ant-hill at my feet, and even literature became a futile jabbering of voices; sometimes they seemed no more than clumsy scaffoldings constructed on air without any relationship to reality. I studied Kant, and he convinced me that no one could ever put me wise to things. His Critique seemed to me to be so very much to the point and I took so much pleasure in getting the hang of it that for the moment I couldn’t find it
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