We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but
when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what w

It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly
taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and
never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self – never to be fully
possessed by the glory we behold, never to have our consciousness rapturously
transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardour of a passion, the
energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and
timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted.

From Middelmarch, by George Elliot (more…)

We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but
when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what w

But when it comes to thought, it is I who continue it, I who
unwind it. I exist. I think I exist. Oh, how long and serpentine this feeling
of existing is – and I unwind it, slowly….If only I could prevent myself from
thinking! I try, I succeed: it seems as if my head is filling with smoke….And
now it starts again: ‘Smoke…. Mustn’t think…. I don’t want to think….I think
that I don’t want to think. I mustn’t think that I don’t want to think. Because
it is still a thought. Will there never be an end to it?

My thought is me: that is why I can’t stop. I exist
by what I think… and I can’t prevent myself from thinking.

From Nausea, by Jean-Paul Sartre (more…)