A Middling Talent Makes For A More

So We Live; A Spirit That Broods And Hovers Over The Continual Death Of Time, The Lost Meaning, The Unrecaptured Moment, The Unremembered Face, Until The Final Chop That Ends All Our Moments And Plunges That Spirit Back Into The Void From Which It Came.

I Live, I Live, With An Absolutely Continuous Sense Of Failure. I Am Always Defeated, Always. Every Book Is The Wreck Of A Perfect Idea. The Years Pass And One Has Only One Life. If One Has A Thing At All One Must Do It And Keep On And On And On Trying To Do It Better.

Anything That Consoles Is Fake.

Art Is The Final Cunning Of The Human Soul Which Would Rather Do Anything Than Face The Gods.

The Chief Requirement Of The Good Life, Is To Live Without Any Image Of Oneself.