What I read, I mark. And copiously. What I do not mark, I do not understand. Not really. Rereading some books of old, like Theodor Adorno’s Negative Dialectics,[1] is thus a pain. More, a misery. The old marking is so subtle, so very tender, I cannot understand it any longer. After some thirty years, my marking has become so coarse. So very barbarian. Even my handwriting has become so swollen, so thoroughly uncouth. I could never attempt it next to the delicate marking of old. Still, I do understand what I do not mark. Well, not really.

Footnote

1. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1973, first published in 1966.