Cleaning the kitchen feels harder to me than creating a thousand-page philosophical masterpiece.

 Cleaning the kitchen feels harder to me than creating a thousand-page philosophical masterpiece. Because even though I am internally totalitarian, externally I am anarchic. I expect too much from myself, yet I refuse to carry any social obligation. If I conform to them, it is only out of necessity, and they can hold no inner value for me. I could even hire a maid just to heat up a simple meal in the oven, because I don’t like feeding my body with my own hands. My body—physicality itself—is something I don’t even care about, because I’ve risen so high that it all seems “irrelevant” to me now. What I love is feeding my mind with my own hands alone—a creature that never gets satisfied.