And yet I seem to see everything clearly tonight. When I started writing, I thought I’d reached the point where conclusions could be drawn about one’s own life. But every experience—even the one that comes from this long questioning of myself in the notebook—teaches me that all life passes in the anguished attempt to draw conclusions and not succeeding. At least for me it’s like that: everything seems, at the same time, good and bad, just and unjust, even transient and eternal.
