What a pen can make: lines. The sea sees nothing. The computer heats up, rendering. What was given to Henry James: names. Makes a world. 

They were neither of them saints. Him especially, but also especially, her. But what makes a saint? To have stood for something, and to have suffered for it. Isn't that enough? Isn't that, at least, something?

The artist chooses his constraints: that is his freedom. But the philosopher? Is she not obligated, simply, to the truth? And thus is the least free of all? The philosopher does not invent, even when she does invent: a voice, a character, a concept. The philosopher constructs a discourse, an elaborate machine for unearthing what she discovers in the day or night. She lives in the brilliant aftermath of intuition.