Among all those accumulate papers I've been reading and throwing to the recycling bin, I've also found one about Thaddeus Zielinski and the library he "had left in the hands of the Bolsheviks". It was said that every time he remembered it, he cried.
I wonder what books he had. The longer I look to my own ones, the lesser is the value that I attach to them. I don't know where my love of knowledge has gone; or better say, in what it is deposited now. I suppose there is a great technical difference between thence and now, in terms of epoch; this is why the books don't mean to me what they might have meant to Zielinski. Certainly. Or perhaps, somehow, he also had better books.
I've a growing sensation of their insufficiency, as if I'd got so very few books truly at my level, good enough for me. Sooner would I repeat with Aquinas: mihi videtur ut palea... All what I've learned, all what has been passing for knowledge and wisdom where I've been... So deeply insufficient that I have no choice but to start everything anew. Collecting books, reading, writing, thinking.
This is why I'm craving for emptiness, to start building upon it. Ich hab' Mein' Sach' auf Nichts gestellt... - that's Max Stirner, but it could be Nietzsche as well, and perhaps it could be me.
In fact, as I go on making order in my papers, I start to feel the emptiness, das Unheimliche the sudden absence of chaos brings about. Perhaps I was accumulating all this stuff during all this years just to avoid the confrontation with this creative openness, the possibility of such a new beginning, of maturity.
And the new beginning is upon me, and I conform and accept it.