From Jon Fosse's essay, The Gnosis of Writing:

I understand so little. And as the years pass, I understand less and less. It is true. But the opposite is also true, that as the years pass I understand more and more. Yes, it is also true that as the years pass I understand a great amount, an almost frightening amount. As a matter of fact, I feel almost faint at how little I understand and almost frightened at how much I understand. How can it be that both things are true, that I simultaneously understand less and less and more and more?

The lucid thought would say, if that’s the case, either to understand little is also to understand much, and that, I would agree, is true in a certain sense, perhaps almost in a gnostic sense, or, the lucid thought would say, it is about two kinds of understanding. And perhaps that’s how it is, yes perhaps it is as simple as saying that in and through the kind of understanding which resorts to concepts and theory in order to understand, I become aware that I understand less and less, and that the scope of such a realisation more and more often appears to me to be limited, while in the kind of understanding which resorts to fiction and poetry to understand, I understand more and more. Perhaps that’s how it is. At least that’s what it feels like to me, who, after having written a great deal of essayistic theory, am now doing it less and less, and now almost exclusively write a language which first and foremost doesn’t mean, but first and foremost is, yes is itself, almost like rocks and trees and gods and human beings, and only after that means. And in this language which primarily is, and which only secondarily means, I feel that I understand more and more, while I also, in and through the other ordinary language, the language which primarily means, understand less and less.