I distrust your cleverness. You make wonderful patterns—everything is in its place—it looks convincingly clear—too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions—so that one only thinks one has been given all you thought, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers, and layers—you’re bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You’re the thinker who arouses the most confusion in me, most doubts, most disturbances.