Thinking is a physical act
It's like reading in that respect. Today I valiantly set out for a park to Do some Work pertaining to an eventual dissertation proposal (nutshell). I even fortified myself with some black sesame seed ice cream. But it was windy—hella windy—in the park. So I had to decamp (I pause in my writing to reflect that this word always brings to mind a particular passage from Caesar's Civil War reproduced in Finis Rei Publicae, or rather, since I can't find it again, though in looking for it I discovered that in early 2001 I knew what an "oppositional relative clause" was, and can't remember really what it said, except that the armies were leaving somewhere for somewhere, I should perhaps say that it brings to mind the fact of that passage's existence) to a cafe where I had, a first for this particular place, a really execrable cup of coffee, and finally put into practice my plan of, not typing some thoughts up, but writing some thoughts down—for you see, these thoughts were written on paper, using a pen (not, unfortunately, a fountain or dip pen, though I have those, don't think I don't).
An instructive experience! Being able to divide the page into different regions as I had different thoughts, related to each other but not, generally, coming in the proper order to be written out straight down the page, was extremely helpful. Frees one to pursue tangents by drawing lines, etc, between what comments on what, write in the margins, write in little boxes, write in big boxes, write somewhere and then draw a box around it, all that jazz. Maybe one can accomplish such tasks with Word or something like that; as far as I know, you can't really do that with emacs, folding notwithstanding—there's just the text you type above or below some other text.
It always does seem to me that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love to keep it by me: the idea of getting rid of it nearly breaks my heart. You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has almost become a passion with me: my study is so full of it now, that there is hardly an inch of room for any more. I shall have to throw out a wing soon. And I am careful of my work, too. Why, some of the work that I have by me now has been in my possession for years and years, and there isn't a finger-mark on it. I take a great pride in my work; I take it down now and then and dust it. No man keeps his work in a better state of preservation than I do. But, though I crave for work, I still like to be fair. I do not ask for more than my proper share. But I get it without asking for it - at least, so it appears to me - and this worries me.