1. “I can well understand why children love sand.” - epigraph attributed to Wittgenstein in Wittgenstein’s Mistress 

2. Archimedes calculated the number of grains of sand which could be contained in the universe as 80 x 10 ^ 15 grains.

3. Cantor’s infinity of infinities.

4. “[Infinity] sets the whole mind in a whirl, and gives the pleasant feeling of paradox. If you can show that there are numbers bigger than the infinite, your head whirls. This may be the chief reason this was invented.” - Wittgenstein, from lecture XIII

Once, Turner had himself lashed to the mast of a ship for several hours, during a furious storm, so that he could later paint the storm.

Obviously, it was not the storm itself that Turner intended to paint. What he intended to paint was a representation of the storm.

One’s language is frequently imprecise in that manner, I have discovered.
—  David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress

The curator’s job—to recall, choose, arrange: to impose order and so communicate meaning—is marvelously synechdochic of the life of the solipsist, of the survival strategies apposite one’s existence as monad in a world of diffracted fact.

Except a big question is: whence facts, if the world is “empty”?

—  David Foster Wallace on David Markson's Wittgenstein’s Mistress
David Markson

Jackson Pollock una vez trabajó de limpiar los excrementos de pájaros de las estatuas en los parques de Nueva York.


A Baudelaire le costó cinco años de cartas y poemas llevarse a madame Sabatier a la cama. Una vez. Sea cual sea la calamidad que allí ocurrió, la aventura terminó esa misma noche.


Kant no sabía de música. Y decía que leer novelas diluía la mente.


Murphy, de Beckett, fue rechazada por cuarenta y dos editores.


Oliver Edwards, conocido de Samuel Johnson, podría haber sido filósofo.

Pero esa alegría siempre estaba interrumpiendo.

La soledad del lector (La Bestia Equilátera, 2012)

Was it really some other person I was so anxious to discover, when I did all of that looking, or was it only my own solitude that I could not abide?

Wandering through this endless nothingness. Once in a while, when I was not mad, I would turn poetic instead. I honestly did let myself think about things in such ways.

The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.

—  David Markson – from Wittgenstein’s Mistress

Writer is pretty much tempted to quit writing.

Writer is weary unto death of making up stories.

Lord Byron died of either rheumatic fever, or typhus, or uremia, or malaria. Or was inadvertently murdered by his doctors, who had bled him incessantly.

Stephen Crane died of tuberculosis in 1900. Granted an ordinary modern life span, he would have lived well into World War II.

This morning I walked to the place where the street-cleaners dump the rubbish. My God, it was beautiful. Says a van Gogh letter.

Writer is equally tired of inventing characters.

—  David Markson - from This Is Not a Novel
Poor James Joyce, who was somebody else who crawled under furniture when it thundered. Poor Beethoven, who never learned to do simple child’s multiplication. Poor Sappho, who leaped from a high cliff, into the Aegean. Poor John Rushkin, who had all those other silly troubles to begin with, of course, but who finally also saw snakes.
—  David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress